


The Sinner’s Redemption

by oldenuf2nb



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 25 Days 2019, 25 Days of Harry and Draco, Divorced Harry Potter & Ginny Weasley, Getting Together, Healer Hermione Granger, Living as a Muggle Draco Malfoy, M/M, Nosy Co-workers, Nosy children, Post-War, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Slow Build Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Snark, punitive laws
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:41:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 55,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21632368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldenuf2nb/pseuds/oldenuf2nb
Summary: When Headmaster, Harry Potter, loses his Potions Professor - is he willing to fight the system to employ the one person he knows will excel in the position?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 332
Kudos: 1527
Collections: 25 Days of Draco and Harry 2019





	1. Friendships and Freudian Slips

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Livejournal’s slythindor100 25 Days of Draco and Harry, Advent 2019. In regards to the NC-17 rating - it will come eventually. Remember, patience is a virtue. 
> 
> Special thanks to sassy_cissa for agreeing to run this madness yet again. Thank you, love. I know it’s a pain in the arse, but it wouldn’t be Christmas without it.
> 
> The title is that of an old English Traditional Folk carol.
> 
> And to the brilliant enchanted_jae; I had already started this before I realized you were writing a Headmaster!Harry universe, love. (which can be read here: [Headmaster Harry verse](https://enchanted-jae.livejournal.com/1096571.html) I’m sure they’ll be very different!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: 

Harry Potter sat on his bed in his quarters at Hogwarts, long pyjama clad legs crossed beneath him, long sleeved Weasley jumper pulled taut over his arms and chest. When he’d pulled it out of his wardrobe after his shower, he’d thought it might be the one from his sixth year; it was dark green with a large ‘H’ knitted on the front in yarn that had once flashed through most of the major primary colours before settling on a gleaming gold. The fit confirmed his guess; it was tight, and the ‘H’ had settled into one sort of nauseating puce colour. It had been a huge hit the one time he wore it to Ron and Hermione’s ‘ugly sweater’ do. Now its appearance at the bottom of the wardrobe simply confirmed he needed the elves to do his laundry. He’d banned them from automatically taking it from his quarters early during his tenure when his Y-fronts came back starched. Now the little creatures were only allowed to take his clothes when he told them to, and only from the hamper in the en-suite loo. The problem with that was he didn’t remember to _tell them_ to take it until he had nothing else presentable to wear. Fortunately, he wasn’t going anywhere.

He picked up and idly twirled the golden sugar maple leaf that lie on the next page of an open book, then set it next to a small bundle of dried gypsophilia. He turned his attention to the close and meticulously written notes in a small notebook. After several minutes, he yanked off his tortoise shell framed glasses and tossed them aside, rubbing his tired eyes with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. He’d had enough of reviewing the substitute potions professor’s syllabus, and leaned back against a soft throw pillow, one of a pair Lily picked out for him when he moved into his quarters. She’d thought his bed was too plain; he thought the beige pillows with the carnation shaped puffs and the black lines were entirely too fussy, although he’d die before he told her that. He picked up his cup of frothy hot chocolate, taking a sip, then closing his eyes with a soft sigh of pleasure. The drink was nearly as much Bailey’s as it was cocoa, and he felt the muscles across his shoulders begin to relax. 

The Floo in the sitting room chimed, alerting Harry someone wanted to come through. He straightened, putting his cup down on the slice of fairy aspen that was charmed to keep the drink warm. The flames in his small outer sitting room fireplace flared neon green, and he leaned forward, knowing it could only be one of four people the Floo was charmed to accept; Ron, Hermione, James and Ginny. He could see Hermione’s face as she waited for him. Harry hurried his pace.

He threw Floo powder onto the small fire. “Come through, Hermione.” He took a step back as the hearth magically enlarged and she entered over the flames.

As soon as she cleared the fireplace, she was unfastening her mint green Healer’s robes, tossing them over one of Harry’s chairs and kicking off her black pumps. She wiggled her stocking-clad toes in the thick rug before the hearth with a sigh of delight. Her grey trousers and white button down showed off her slender build, and despite the occasional silver hair threaded through the brown at her temples Harry thought she looked the same as she had at nineteen.

“Gods, I hate those shoes.” She reached up and pulled one long pin from the bun at the nape of her neck, and her honey brown curls spilled over her shoulders. “Do I smell cocoa? I’d do murder for a cup.”

“That won’t be necessary. And since I’m the only one here, I’d as soon you didn’t.”

She gave him a slight smile. “Well, that’s going to depend entirely on how willing you are to share.”

“Perfectly willing.” Harry walked into his small, efficiency kitchen. He took most of his meals in the Great Hall, but it was nice to have the hot plate if he wanted to warm up a snack. A large stainless kettle sat on the counter, and he took another mug from a cupboard and poured her out a cup of the fragrant chocolate. 

“Marshmallows?” he offered.

“Please. Just don’t tell Ron. I’m forever after him about his sugar intake; I’d just as soon not give him any ammunition to fire back.”

Harry grinned as he dropped two of the fluffy, elf made marshmallows onto the chocolate before handing it to her. She took a sip, then sighed gratefully. “Thank you. No one makes cocoa like the Hogwarts elves.” She smirked slightly. “Even though Molly would argue. We just won’t tell her I said it.”

“I certainly won’t.” He leaned back against the counter, his hands on either side of his hips. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure, Healer Weasley?”

She grimaced. “Can we sit first? I’m dead on my feet.”

She did look tired. There were dark smudges beneath her expressive brown eyes and tight lines around her mouth. “Of course.” 

He led the way back into the sitting room, perching on the arm of his worn leather sofa. He and Gin bought it the first year they’d been married, and it was worn to the hide in spots, being held together more than twenty years later with charms and luck. Hermione swept her robes into a messy heap on the floor, falling back into the overstuffed chair nearest the fire with a rough sigh. It was so unlike her that Harry frowned. 

“Hermione, what’s going on?”

She stared into her mug, and Harry was alarmed by the tears that misted her eyes. She cleared her throat. “Horace passed this afternoon.”

Harry felt as if he’d been given a particularly strong slug to the sternum. He stared at her, stunned into silence. 

He’d first met Horace Slughorn when he’d been sixteen years old, and Dumbledore had used him to convince the old potions professor to come back to teach at Hogwarts. It had been right at the beginning of the second war against Voldemort. Harry had never been particularly fond of Horace but he’d been an institution at Hogwarts, just like Flitwick and Hagrid, and hearing he was dead was like a physical blow. 

Hermione was Slughorn’s healer since he’d been admitted to St. Mungo’s after collapsing during dinner in the Great Hall. Harry would never forget it; he’d been the one to calm the alarmed students, then Floo’d Hermione, side along Apparating the old man to the hospital while Hermione awaited their arrival in the Emergency ward. Harry knew how seriously she took the care of each of her patients; this loss would only be compounded by the fact she knew him well. 

“What happened?” Harry asked.

She blew out a weary sigh. “He wasn’t really responding to treatment for the stroke, and this afternoon he went downhill so fast there was nothing we could do.” She rolled the mug between her palms. “I told him he needed to take better care of himself, but he never would listen.”

Harry thought about the corpulent old man who’d loved his rich foods and butter beer. Horace never had met a dessert he didn’t love, and if one glass of mead was good - five were better. Harry grimaced. “Shit. This might sound…well, self-centered, but that means I have to find a new potion’s professor, not to mention head of Slytherin house.”

She looked up at him. “Isn’t Mergatroid handling it?”

“He’s… better than nothing.” Harry slid down onto the couch, letting his head fall against the back. “But he’ll never get the seventh years through their NEWT’s, and the kids hate him.” Harry stacked his hands behind his head. “I don’t much like him, either. He’s a prissy little toad, and almost as arrogant as Gilderoy Lockhart.”

Hermione took a sip from her mug, then propped it on her stomach, looking at it thoughtfully. “You can put an advert in the _Prophet_.” Harry made an expression of distaste. 

“Yeah. I’ll probably have to.”

She straightened a bit. “You could also contact the Apothecary’s in Diagon. And the pharmacy at St. Mungo’s.” 

He gave her a keen look. “Can you think of anyone who might suit?”

She paused, then shook her head. “Most of them are too young to handle the responsibilities, or too old to handle the kids.”

Harry chuckled. “That does seem to be the problem.” He gave her an amused arch of a brow. “I don’t suppose you’re ready to hang up the green robes and come teach for me?”

The look on her face was not particularly encouraging. “Thank you, Headmaster, but I’ll pass. You can’t afford me.” Harry snorted, but he knew it was true. “And if I told Ron we were moving back into Hogwarts so that I could become the head of Slytherin House, he’d divorce me. Odd as it seems, I rather love my husband.”

Harry snorted. “The problem is we’ve reached a point where the attrition from the wars is causing a staffing problem.” She nodded in agreement. Neville was teaching, and he and Hannah’s oldest was a fourth year which meant she had her dad for Herbology. Luna and Rolf’s boys were sixth years, so their Mum was their Divination prof. If they wanted staff from England, they almost always had school age kids. “I can’t change your mind?”

She shook her head. “Not even a little bit.”

He straightened. “My loss. Does Slughorn have any family?”

“None that’s bothered to come see him while his been in hospital. In fact, he’s had very few visitors. A couple of Slytherin’s. In fact…” she stopped abruptly. 

“In fact, what?”

She bit her lower lip, then shook her head. “Nothing. I need to go home; I’m exhausted. I just felt like you needed to know about Horace.”

“Yeah. I appreciate you coming by. Slytherin house should hear it from me rather than in tomorrow’s _Prophet_.”

She nodded with a sad sigh and sat up, draining her mug of cocoa. Harry pushed to his feet, taking her mug and placing it on the mantle. He caught her hand and helped her up, studying her weary face.

“Are you all right, love?” 

She nodded, looking away from his searching gaze. “I’m fine. Like I said, I’m just tired.” She bent to scoop up her robes and shoes, facing him with a drained, wan smile. “Come for dinner Friday?”

“I’ll bring wine.” He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her. “Take care of yourself. Please.”

She nodded when she stepped back. “Do you think the Hogwarts Board of Governors will want to do a memorial for him here?”

Harry fought a grimace. Slughorn was dead, after all. It wasn’t generous to begrudge the old man this last gesture. “I’m sure they will. And the kids will want to pay their respects.”

“Yes.” She walked to the hearth, then looked back at him over her shoulder, indicating her full arms. “Will you get the powder for me?”

“Sure.” 

He scooped up a handful of the grainy powder from the decorative container on his heavy wood mantle and sprinkled it over the flames. They flared bright green, the hearth opening stretching wide. She stepped into it, then looked back at him. As long as he lived, he doubted he’d ever find someone stepping calmly into a fire _not_ weird. “Would you like me to see if I can help you find a new potions professor?”

“I think you have enough responsibilities, Hermione. I’ll find someone, and Mergatroid can handle it for the next week or two, then it’s hols anyway.” He gave her a wry grin. “As long as I don’t kill the obnoxious little bastard before they start.”

“It wouldn’t look good for you if you did, Headmaster.”

“Ah, but it might be worth it.” 

She giggled, and Harry grinned at the incongruous sound. “Go home, Healer. You’re getting punchy.”

“You’re right. See you Friday.”

She called out ‘Ron and Hermione’s kitchen’, and disappeared in the flare of neon flames. Harry stared into the darkened fireplace, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his lower lip. 

She’d been going to say something else after ‘in fact’, and had stopped herself; he’d known her too long to miss the hesitation, and the quick guilty look on her face. But what was it?

He sighed and shook his head. If she had something to say, she’d tell him only if and when she wanted to and there was no point in dwelling on it. He walked back towards his bedroom, dreading trying to make his way through Mergatroid’s incomprehensible syllabus. 

It was going to be a long evening.

TBC


	2. It Had Always Been, And Still Was

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: 

Draco Malfoy shifted restlessly in his sleep, pale hair spilled over the dark blue pillowcase, a faint sheen of sweat on his bare shoulders. His dreams, as ever, were vivid. Too vivid.

_The Manor was decorated lavishly for Christmas, as it was every year, and the fragrance of Gingerbread made his stomach grumble in complaint at its emptiness. He walked slowly down one side of the huge staircases that curved like a pair of open arms up to the second floor, hand trailing lightly over the tips of the pine garland that wrapped around the ebony handrails. Gold and pearl ornaments dotted the dark greens, gold ribbon threaded through the branches and massive, elegant white magnolia blooms were scattered artfully every few feet. They smelled vaguely of lemon, and Draco lowered his head for a quick sniff; he loved the fragrance. It reminded him of his lover’s cologne, and a serene smile curled his lips._

_A towering pine tree sat at the base of the matching staircases, decorated to coordinate with the garlands, fairy lights flickering as the little creatures danced from bough to bough. The vast branches of the Nordmann fir stretched toward the high ceiling of the entry hall, and the scent of the tree, mingled with the Magnolia’s, would always say Christmas to Draco. The black and white marble tiles of the floor gleamed in the soft golden candlelight of the candelabra far above, and the alcoves in the walls that were usually filled with vases or ancient sculptures held stocky white pillar candles on blocky but elegant black candelabra. It looked much as it had when mother was still in charge, with her army of house elves jumping at her every command. Those Christmases had been legendary, back when everyone in the wizarding world wanted an invitation to the Manor for Christmas Eve. The party would be smaller this year, but no less festive._

_He walked slowly across the wide entryway, heading down the hall leading toward the first floor ballroom. There were two other vast ballrooms, one on the second floor and one on the third, now closed off. No one entertained on that level anymore, and probably never would. The thought made Draco slightly melancholy, but he shrugged it off, detouring through a set of double doors that led to the family’s private sitting room, dining room and kitchen. The small sitting room was comfortable, with a large black sofa, overstuffed chairs, and slightly masculine table lamps sitting atop dark mahogany side tables. There was even a large telly, hanging on the wall above the fir decorated mantle. The fire was already burning brightly in the hearth, and the family Christmas tree stood in a deep set of bay windows, its cheerful red, green, gold and silver decorations framed by heavy cream coloured velvet draperies. It was a lovely, cozy room, Draco’s favorite in the house after Scorpius’s bedchamber. His son’s room had changed a great deal since he’d been a baby, but even now, when he was rarely home, Draco could smell him there. He’d never tell the handsome, tall young man how often he lingered in there, just to feel close to him. It made him feel like a sap, something he’d never admit publicly._

_There was no one in the room, and Draco frowned slightly. Where was he, then, he thought, a frown between his brows. Probably in the large, formal kitchens, swiping more of the ginger snaps he was addicted to. Draco thought a few of the small, crisp cookies sounded like just the thing, too, before he dressed, but he detoured to the windows instead of heading to the kitchen. It was snowing again, and he stood and watched the thick, heavy flakes as they swirled toward the ground._

_Strong arms swathed in a rich green cable knit sweater slipped around his waist from behind, and Draco smiled, leaning into the sturdy body pressed against his back._

_“Hello.” Lips skimmed along the line of Draco’s collar, then detoured up, teeth teasing his ear lobe. A shiver ran down his spine._

_“Hello. Where have you been?”_

_“In the kitchen, stealing ginger snaps when Kirby and Bermy aren’t looking.”_

_“I knew it, you bandit.”_

_“That’s me.”_

_Draco wrapped his arms over the sturdy ones around his waist. “How was your day?”_

_He felt the shrug at his back through his starched button down. “Same as always. Making sure all the kids who are supposed to go get on the train and the ones staying are okay.”_

_“Our Head of House might’ve done that, but I don’t remember a Headmaster ever checking in when I was left behind.”_

_“They should’ve.”_

_It was Draco’s turn to shrug. “I imagine they knew I preferred to be there than here. At least then.”_

_“Hmm.” The lips were back, skimming Draco’s cheekbone, the embrace tightening around his body. “So, when does this wingding start?”_

_Draco snorted. “Wingding? You know this is a formal dress ball.”_

_“Yeah, whoopee. Formal dress ball. Do you suppose we have time to share a shower before I stuff myself into those formal robes?”_

_Draco felt the low thrum of arousal warm his groin. “Oh, well… I suppose so. Do you plan to make it worth my while?”_

_There was a faintly affronted sound from behind him, but Draco could hear he wasn’t seriously offended. “Don’t I usually?”_

_Draco turned within his embrace, sliding his hands slowly up a nicely muscled chest, wrapping around his lover’s neck. He stared into vivid, deep green eyes. “Usually? Yes, yes you do.”_

_The wicked, slightly crooked smile sent a tremor of desire directly into Draco’s prick as a large hand closed firmly over one cheek of his arse._

He awoke with a gasp, long pale fingers fisting in his flannel sheets. At one time he’d have never slept on anything so common, but the heat in his third floor flat was unreliable and the flannel helped trap his body warmth. Staring up at the heavy crown molding of the Victorian era townhouse, his heart galloping and his cock hard, he cursed colourfully in French. After several long minutes, where his heart didn’t slow and his prick didn’t soften, Draco threw the bedding back and reached for the black wool dressing gown laid over the foot of his bed.

“What the bloody, blithering fuck.” He shifted to English as he shoved his feet into wool lined slippers and his arms into his dressing gown. “There are so many things wrong in that scenario that I haven’t even words. Christ.”

He yanked his bedroom door open and let it bang against the wall. The door was heavy and the wall covered in old, cabbage rose wallpaper, and if he weren’t just the renter of the flat that paper would have been the first thing to go. But he was the renter, so he was stuck with it. He stomped down the narrow hall, through the under furnished sitting room and into the tiny kitchen, filling the kettle at the small sink without even turning on the lights and lighting the hob with a muttered spell. He’d been able to do that one spell since he was in short pants, but it was the only wandless magic he could manage. As the flames did their job beneath the kettle, Draco dug his tin of tea and his china sugar bowl out of the cupboard, setting a heavy white porcelain mug next to them. Once done, he turned and leaned against the counter to look out the window. The pressure against his half hard cock made it ache, and he grimaced and reached into the front of his robe to adjust it in his boxers. 

Ordinarily he was very fond of the view from his third floor windows. He lived in the top floor of what had once been a very high-end townhouse, in a neighbourhood that wasn’t what it had once been but was still well above middle class. The townhouses, butted up one right against the next, were situated on a wide avenue with a delightful courtyard down the center. A fountain with a statue of a slender Victorian girl had been drained of water for the winter, and bike racks down each side sported dozens of bicycles. One of them, the black racing bike straight across from the etched leaded glass door that led to the main stairs, even belonged to him. He found riding most of the year bracing, and it helped to keep him in shape to ride the five miles to his job at the Muggle pharmacy. In winter, however, it was mostly just too bloody cold. It was time to bring the bike in, he knew, but dreaded hauling it up the three flights to his entryway. 

There were dozens of trees down the middle of the street, and they’d been cleverly lit for the holidays, balls of twinkle lights resembling mistletoe. It was charming, and even though he no longer decorated himself, he enjoyed the view. He hadn’t had a tree in at least five years; his only nod to the coming holidays was several wrapped packages on the small round table in the corner of the sitting room. One for Pansy, one for Greg, several for Scorpius. He never left it to the last minute, knowing his hours would be shorter in December, and therefore his pay packets would be, too.

He’d been lucky, however. Without his knowing, his mother had set up a vault for him at Gringotts during his father’s first incarceration, consisting of most of her dowry from the Black family when she’d married Lucius. Even though the Ministry had taken all of the Malfoy wealth, along with the Manor and several other properties in England and France, they had been unable to take the Black money. Additionally, Severus had left him the contents of his vault in France, which had put Draco through school. As long as he was frugal and smart about it, between his position at Frombley’s Family Pharmacy (and if that wasn’t an example of obnoxious alliteration, he’d eat his slippers) and the modest vault at Gringotts, he was able to live fairly comfortably. So why he was dreaming about the luxurious, opulent decorations of the Manor Christmases during their heyday, he couldn’t say. They’d never come again; the Manor was closed and shuttered, the grounds a tangled mess and his mother and father both gone. He’d gone by for years to stand at the barred gates and look at the house in the distance, but couldn’t do it any longer; it was too painful. In fact, his chest still ached from the vivid dream, and his groin still felt heavy.

Where had the fucking dream even come from? He turned when the kettle whistled, making his tea, adding an unhealthy dose of sugar. He walked into the sitting room, settling onto the threadbare sofa and pulling a knitted throw from the back to settle over his legs. It was one of Pansy’s early efforts, ugly as sin but she’d made it for him. Cupping his mug between his palms he stared into the dark, bare fireplace. It didn’t matter that it had been closed off; he wasn’t allowed to be connected to the Floo network, anyway. 

He sipped the excellent tea (he made an exceptional cup of tea, if he did say so himself), his mind drifting back to the dream, closing his eyes on a ragged sigh. Why he would dream anything of the sort about Potter, he couldn’t imagine. He’d only seen the git in fleeting glimpses since the morning after he’d watched him kill Voldemort as if it were nothing at all. He’d never forget the early light painting the inside of the wrecked Great Hall in the colours of dawn, the Elder Wand soaring from Voldemort’s dead grip to land gracefully in Potter’s filthy, nail bitten hand. He’d killed him with an Expelliarmus, of all things, as easily as the space between one breath and the next, and Draco had been utterly dazzled by it. Who killed a Dark Lord so simply? Apparently no one but Harry Bloody Potter. 

Draco sighed, closing his eyes, holding his cup in one hand and running the fingers of the other up through his fine, baby soft hair. Potter. Fucking Potter. 

It had always been, and still was, fucking Potter.


	3. Old Debts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: 

Harry stepped into the fragrant interior of The Three Broomsticks, the warmth after the snowy cold outside more than welcome, the smell of cinnamon and butterbeer making his mouth water. He made straight for the bar across the room, its long, thick wooden surface shining in the golden light of the lanterns above and the brilliantly burning sconces on the walls. The huge fireplace across the room sported a large, pleasantly crackling fire, and he saw Rosmerta decorating a slightly squatty Christmas tree in the corner. He’d passed Hagrid hauling in the first of the twelve trees for the Great Hall and they’d chatted for a couple of minutes before the snow had just got too thick and heavy to stand out it. He supposed he couldn’t ignore the fact Christmas was fast approaching any longer; one night soon he’d go to bed and wake up with a garland on his fireplace mantle and a tree gleaming with fairy lights in the corner. He was careful to check carefully for their appearance each morning now: the was an incident in his first year as Head that included a leisurely wank, and a tree full of very amused fairies who’d got an eyeful. 

“What can I get you, Head Master?” The young man behind the bar scrubbed the top to a velvet sheen as Harry stepped up between two stools.

“I’ll take a hot cider, Sammy.” He turned and casually surveyed the room, checking for students while trying to appear not to. There was a table of fourth years in the far corner who’d noticed him with alarm and seemed to be trying to hide their mugs nonchalantly while looking anything but. 

“Can I top it up with fire whiskey for you?” Sammy asked as he pulled a mug of the amber cider from a pot steaming on a small hob behind the bar. 

“I’d like nothing more, but I’ve got the duty today.” He lowered his voice as Sammy set a mug on the bar and Harry handed over a galleon. “What’s going on in the back corner over there?” 

Sammy looked over his shoulder, then hid a grin. “They’re dropping Smoking Whizzies in their hot butterbeer. It’s harmless, but gives them a bit of a buzz for about two minutes.”

Harry shook his head. “My former brother-in-law is a menace.” Sammy chuckled as Harry picked up his mug and turned, studying the rest of the room. There were more fourth years near the stairs, but they were all good kids and looked to be having bowls of steaming stew with their cider. Seventh years congregated along the wall and Harry stiffened; those bore watching, because they were all legally of age and some had no qualms about getting rip roaring drunk even though it wasn’t allowed. He relaxed when he saw the Head Boy in their midst; Scorpius Malfoy wouldn’t let them get out of hand. He noticed Harry watching and lifted his mug of butterbeer with a cheeky grin. Harry fought his responding smile, nodding in acknowledgement. 

Scorpius was a good kid. Harry had been a bit leery about him at first, but his resemblance to his father and his grades were the only things he had in common with the man. Scorp was best mates with Albus, and now that Harry looked more closely he saw his wayward brat seated in the middle of the bunch, grinning at him. The group of them, maybe eight in all, stood and began to sing the Hogwarts school song, badly.

_Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,  
Teach us something, please,  
Whether we be old and bald  
Or young with scabby knees,  
Our heads could do with filling  
With some interesting stuff,  
For now they’re bare and full of air,  
Dead flies and bits of fluff._

“Isn’t that the truth. Do stop and spare the poor clientele.” Harry didn’t yell but his deep voice carried. They collapsed into laughter, unable to continue due to their general hilarity. He shook his head at them, hiding his own amusement, and turned to walk over towards Rosmerta and her fat tree.

“Care to hang an ornament or two?” she asked with a grin as she took a beautiful antique ornament from a box. He pulled out a chair with his foot and sat near the fire. His warming charms had never been anything to write home about, and the heat on his right side was welcome.

“Nah, you seem to be managing just fine without me.” He stretched out his long legs and crossed his booted feet at the ankles, wet leather beginning to steam slightly in the warmth. He let his long wool Winter cape pool behind him on the floor.

Rosmerta pursed her lips. “Oh, come on, Harry. When is the last time you helped decorate a Christmas tree?” 

Harry pretended to think about it, but he knew exactly when; the last Christmas they’d had as a family, before he was and he and Gin were still bogged in a miserable marriage. 

Because he was with the kids at school during the year, at least Albus and Lily, Gin had them for all of the school holidays now. He knew it was fair, but it made his own holidays pretty grim. James would come by and they’d have dinner one night, and he’d always be welcome at Ron and Hermione’s for Christmas Eve. Christmas day was quiet; he knew he could go to the Burrow but it felt weird now that Gin was re-married. He’d eat with the remaining students and staff and try to feel jolly, then he’d open his yearly gift from Hagrid of giant made scotch, drink half a glass, and pass out.

“It wasn’t that long ago,” he told Rosmerta mildly. “And to be honest, I was never much good at it. My efforts offended the fairies.”

She laughed. “Liar, but I’ll let it go.” She studied him as she hung an ornament. “So, how does the Headmaster manage to pull Hogsmeade duty?”

Harry shrugged. “Luna and Rolf are doing something incomprehensible in Derbyshire this weekend that apparently can only be done in December, and Sinistra sprained her ankle.”

“How’d she manage that?” she said with a slight frown.

“Walking down the stairs after spending the evening with Bergstrom,” he said with a meaningful arch of one brow. “I’m going to have to cut off their supply of Grand Marnier.”

“Don’t you dare.” She gave him a steady glare. “They’re two of my best customers.”

“And don’t heal the way they did when they were young and took a tumble down the stairs.” He gave her a rueful, lopsided grin. “Face it, Rosie. You’re contributing to the delinquency of a couple of senior citizens.”

She shrugged. “Move Bergstrom’s quarters to the first floor, and your problem is solved.”

He shrugged one shoulder casually. “Once Mergatroid departs for parts better left unknown, I might just do that.”

She turned back to her tree. “Lost your Potions Master, have you?”

“Turfed him,” Harry admitted, taking a sip of his cider. It had cooled to the perfect temperature, and he sighed in pleasure. “As of December 20th, he’s someone else’s problem.”

“What did _he_ do?”

“Aside from being a general lunatic? He gave the third years the formula for bruise healing paste.”

She turned to him, one brow arched. “So?”

“So, last time you looked was rosehips an ingredient in bruise healing paste?”

Her mouth dropped open. “You must be joking. That stuff is a terrible skin irritant.”

“Oh, I know. Madame Spenser is even now still treating the worst of the victims in the hospital wing, and Mergatroid is packing his kit.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I must say, you don’t sound entirely unhappy about that, Harry. If I didn’t know you so well, I’d wonder if you hadn’t tampered with his list of ingredients.”

“But you do know me that well. I’d never do anything to hurt the kids. Now, if I thought he was the only one who might be affected…” He shook his head. “The idiot told me rosehips helped with the reduction of swelling and made the paste yellow.”

“But… that’s turmeric. It’s what makes the paste yellow.”

“Even I know that, Rosie,” Harry said, his lips quirking in amusement. 

She shook her head. “Those poor kids.”

“Oh, they’ll live. It’s not much worse than an itching hex for most of them. They do worse to each other during passing periods every day. The problem now is that it moves up my need to find a replacement. When the seventh years get back from winter hols, they’ll be starting the serious work to get ready for NEWT’s.”

“And I suppose Hermione…” She let the name hover between them.

Harry grinned. “Cut me dead when I asked.”

Rosmerta shook her head wryly, turning back to the tree. “She’s too smart by half, that one.”

“So she is.”

Harry watched Rosie working on her tree as he nursed his cider, lulled into a bone-melting relaxation by the buzz of conversation and the heat of the fire. When Rosie suddenly stiffened and turned back to him, Harry blinked in surprise. 

“What?”

“Harry, I’ve just had a brilliant thought. You have a former classmate that would make the best Potions Professor since Snape.”

“Who?”

She glanced toward the table of seventh years meaningfully. 

Harry turned his head and studied the students. Albus, who she clearly didn’t mean. Sproutz and Spurles, whose dad’s made fireworks for a living. Kinsey, Dare and Cunningham, who were all nice kids but whose parents were a gardener, a trash collector and a jeweler, respectively. And Scorpius Malfoy, who was currently entertaining his Gryffindor house mates with a rousing story that had them all in hysterics. Harry turned back to Rosie.

“You mean Draco Malfoy,” he said flatly. 

“You have to admit he’s qualified. Probably over-qualified. He even made the _Prophet_ when he graduated from that fancy Swiss academy, with some fancy designation...”

“First class honours,” Harry murmured.

Everyone had been stunned when Draco Malfoy had chosen to study at a Muggle Academy in Switzerland, but Harry supposed they shouldn’t have been. After all, he remembered vaguely that the Ministry’s ruling after the war had been especially harsh. When Harry last heard from Albus, he was managing some Muggle Pharmacy in Bristol. 

“Doesn’t that make him qualified?” she asked sharply.

“More than. But I doubt he’d want to work for me.” 

She gave him a level glare. “Someday, one of you is going to have to act like an adult.” Her voice had heated, and Harry remembered she’d been fond of Malfoy when they were all in school, particularly during his later years. She and Narcissa Malfoy had been friends and house mates when they’d both been at Hogwarts, and Harry was fairly certain she had tried to keep an eye on him, as much as she could. 

“You know, you’re pretty forgiving, considering he cast an _Imperious_ on you to get you to give Katie Bell the opal necklace that almost killed her.” Harry arched a brow at her, and he saw pink spread across her cheekbones. 

“He was under a horrific amount of pressure at the time. Of course, I forgave him.”

Harry shook his head. “You always did have a soft spot for the pointy git,” Harry said, more out of habit than any lingering feelings of dislike. 

Rosmerta looked away. “He was caught up in a terrible mess, and you know it; he was forced by circumstance into doing things he never would’ve otherwise.” She pierced him with a level glare. “And of course, you never made any mistakes when you were sixteen, did you?” 

Harry felt his face heat. Rosmerta was one of only a very few people still alive who knew he’d nearly killed Malfoy during their sixth year. It had taken her a year after he returned as the DADA professor to even speak to him.

“That’s a low blow,” he muttered. She scowled.

“And Draco’s sentence wasn’t?”

Harry honestly wasn’t real clear on Draco’s sentence. He hadn’t been in England at the time, but he seemed remember something about it being almost impossible for him to earn a living in England. 

“If Severus hadn’t left him the Prince money,” Rosmerta went on, “he’d have never been able to go to school.” Her face saddened. “Worry over him is what killed his mother, you know.”

Harry flinched. He’d felt uncomfortably guilty when Narcissa Malfoy died. He’d owed the woman his life, after all, a life debit there’d been no opportunity to repay. 

Except…

Harry stared thoughtfully at Rosmerta. “I don’t know that there’s anything I can do to change it, Rosie.”

“That’s true. You won’t know unless you try.” She paused. “Harry Potter.”

He grimaced, but he caught her meaning. He turned in his chair, looking at the table of seventh year boys. “Scorpius,” he called out. The young man in question turned, familiar grey eyes wide.

“Headmaster?”

“Have you got a moment?”

Harry didn’t miss Rosmerta’s smug smile as she turned back to her tree.

TBC


	4. Deck the Halls…With Entirely Too Much Crap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: 

Draco pulled off one of his gloves with his teeth, then reached under his chin, unhooking his bicycle helmet and pulling it off of his head. He fastened the black helmet to his bike as he entered Frombley’s Family Pharmacy, shivering as the warmth flowed over him and chased the chill from his bones. He’d always been merely average with heating and cooling charms, and neither was good enough to last five miles so he didn’t bother. And his wandless magic was rot, anyway. He still had his wand, but with the limitations on his magic they might as well have snapped it in half. It sat in the bottom of his bureau, and he allowed himself to take it out once in a very great while, just to feel Potter’s magic vibrate against his palm and wasn’t that pathetic. Kingsley Shacklebolt himself had appeared with it after his trial, saying Potter had asked him to return it. Seeing the Minister standing over him, Draco had nearly pissed himself. It wasn’t one of his prouder moments.

It was a miserable day today, the sky pewter grey and rain falling like icy pellets. It had drummed on the hard plastic covering his head and now he had a headache. His hip length red Boden rain jacket kept out the worst of the freezing sleet, and his helmet and clear goggles kept his eyes and head protected, but it was still bloody miserable. The cold water soaked his jeans to his knees and dripped down into the top of his boots, and for the first time this winter he was actually considering taking the tube so he only had to walk three blocks from the underground instead of riding his bike the five miles from Sloane Square, where he lived, to Chiswick where his job was located.

Steering the light racing bike from the front of the small store to the rear, Draco ran his hand through his long fringe, looking around at the eye jarring assortment of Christmas decorations that had sprung up overnight. Where yesterday there had been a relatively pedestrian if tasteful pharmacy,(or as tasteful as it could be with its displays of Zimmers and plastic toilet lids) today there were five seven foot trees on top of endcaps, each decorated in a different ‘theme’, and shiny metallic garland taped on anything that didn’t move. He passed a ladder leaning over the indigestion section, Frombley’s plump, jolly daughter Megan standing on the next to the top rung, silvery blue garland in her hand. 

“’Morning, Draco!” she sang.

“Good morning, Megan.” 

“What do you think of the decorations?” She gave him a hopeful smile. He swallowed his initial reaction. 

“It’s extremely… festive.” It was the best he could manage. He gave her a polite nod and kept walking; if he didn’t, she would involve him in an hour long discussion about absolutely nothing.

He stored his bike in the back hallway in front of the door that led to the alley. He’d offered to come in that way several times, and Frombley always said, “you’re a pharmacology expert with first class honours, Draco. You don’t enter your place of employment past the dumpster.” There was something about the sentiment, said so matter-of-factly, that made Draco’s throat feel tight. His Muggle employer recognized and was kind about his accomplishments while no one in the Wizarding world would even acknowledge them. Draco knew his father would have minimized his training and said something snide about his ‘non magical’ degree. _How hard could it have been, Draco, if even Muggles could manage it?_ He couldn’t allow himself to think about Lucius other than in passing, though. There was still too much pain associated with those memories.

He took his white lab coat off of a hook on the back of the office door, shrugging into it and pausing long enough to run a comb through his hair, then joined Frombley in the main pharmacy. The old man was pulling something from the fax machine, and Draco admired his adaptability. Draco recalled with a certain amount of amusement and fondness spending two days with Pansy while she trained him on the ins and outs of Muggle office equipment. While he’d been in school, she’d been running a Muggle travel agency. Her sentence from the Wizengamot for daring to suggest the Hogwarts students turn the golden boy over to Voldemort had been fifteen years of banishment from employment in a wizarding establishment. Never one to let things get her down, she’d merely worn a very short skirt and very high heels to her first job interview, then she’d broken in over the weekend before she started with books that described the purpose and operation of each odd machine and taught herself how to use them. As far as Draco was concerned, Pans was a bloody rock star.

“Good Morning, Draco,” the old man said cheerfully. His reading glasses had slid down his long nose, and his thin grey hair stood up, fly away, around his round face.

“Good Morning, Mr. Frombley. Anything pressing?”

“Mrs Fitzherbert’s morphine syrup,” he answered softly, frowning. “She took a turn over the weekend. Her daughter will be in to pick it up.”

“I’ll do that first, then.” 

After that they worked in comparative silence but for answering the phone and helping the occasional customer who came to their counter. Mrs Fitzherbert’s daughter came to get her medication, and Draco gave her a sad smile as he handed it over. There could only be one reason for a doctor to prescribe that level of morphine, and that was if his patient didn’t have long enough to worry about addiction. Mrs Fitzherbert could be a right old pill, but her wry wit had always entertained Draco when she came in. 

“Do keep us posted on your mum, Zoey,” Mr Frombley said gently. 

The middle aged woman smiled wearily before she turned to go. 

Another hour went by while Draco and Frombley filled orders and helped customers. When Megan came up to the counter Draco didn’t do more than glance at her while her father turned to her with a wide smile, then stopped.

“Meggie?” he said with concern. “You all right, dear?”

“Uhm, Draco?” she said, sounding suffocated. “There’s someone to see you.”

Draco lifted his head in alarm. No one, besides Pansy, had any idea where he worked. When he saw who was standing behind Megan in the aisle, though, his heart soared.

“Scorpius?” 

His son grinned at him, and his beauty was staggering when he smiled, grey eyes sparkling and teeth gleaming. Suddenly, he understood why Megan looked as if she’d been smacked hard in the head by a bludger.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Dad?” Frombley and Megan spoke together, Frombley delighted and Megan stunned. 

Draco went out through the office door and around the corner, pulling his son into a hard hug. Scorpius was slightly taller than Draco was, the little shit, and he wrapped his arms around Draco’s neck. “Hey, Dad,” he said, and Draco tightened his hug.

“What are you doing here?” He didn’t ask if Scorpius had been suspended or expelled; he knew better.

“What? I couldn’t just turn up to visit my old man?”

“Old man?” he stepped back and smacked Scorpius’ shoulder smartly. “I think not.”

Scorpius laughed.

Draco didn’t realize Frombley had followed him until he heard his voice right behind them. “So this is your son, is it?”

Startled, Draco turned. “Uhm, yes,” he said, feeling his face heat. “Scorpius, this is my employer, Mr Frombley.”

“Employer,” Frombley scoffed, offering his hand.

“Nice to meet you, sir.” Scorpius took the older man’s hand and Draco couldn’t help being proud of his tall, handsome son. He was wearing grey slacks that made his long legs look even longer, his double breasted black pea coat and a wool scarf wrapped around his throat and tucked in beneath the coat’s collar. His white blond hair looked a bit damp, but his skin shone with good health and his classically handsome features made him look over all like an ad for a men’s cologne.

“This is my daughter, Megan.” Frombley gestured to the girl, whose face was the colour of a ripe tomato and who stood there, painfully tongue tied, her dark brown eyes wide. Draco liked the girl, and he felt sorry for her. He’d been struck dumb by a handsome face before; he knew how it felt. 

“Hi.”

She giggled, and there was a moment’s awkward silence following.

“So,” Scorpius turned to Draco, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket as he rocked back onto his heels. “I don’t suppose I could take you to lunch?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “You have enough spending money for that?”

Scorpius scowled at him. “Of course I do. What do I have to spend it on ordinarily, anyway?”

Draco arched a brow. “I can cut back on that, then, can I?”

The look of outrage on Scorpius’ handsome face was almost amusing. “I don’t think I said that.”

Frombley laughed. “Draco, let the lad take you out to lunch.”

“You’re sure you don’t need me?”

“I’m sure I can handle things for an hour or two. Now, off with you.”

Draco collected his coat and gloves, and he and Scorpius walked toward the front of the store as Frombley murmured behind them, “’Scorpius’. Well, I suppose that goes with ‘Draco’.”

“I like their names,” Megan replied dreamily. “They’re so romantic.”

Scorpius grinned and Draco snorted as they walked out into what had diminished to a drizzle. As they walked along the crowded sidewalk, Draco glanced over at his son. 

“So what are you actually doing here, and how did you find the place? I don’t recall ever giving you the direction.”

“Aunt Pansy,” Scorpius answered. “How else?”

“Chatty cow,” Draco grumbled. “And shouldn’t you be in class?”

“I’ve got a double free period on Monday after lunch. You know that.”

Even though he did, Draco was still leery of his son’s sudden appearance. “And you were possessed of a sudden need to go to London on a Monday afternoon?”

“Gods, you’re suspicious. Where are we going, anyway?”

Draco stopped for a moment and looked up and down the block. There was a pub on the corner that did decent fish n’ chips and Shepard’s pie, and he headed in that direction. 

“So in regards to my suspicions, son of mine…”

“Dad, Jesus.” Scorpius grumbled, but Draco didn’t miss the flush across his cheekbones. “I’m legal now, you know. I can Apparate to London if I want to.”

“So you can.” Draco stared at him just long enough to see him start to fidget, then turned his face back in the direction they were headed, deciding he’d wait until their meals were ordered to lean on the boy again. He’d learned interrogation of wayward school boys from an expert; no one he’d ever met had anything on his mother.

The dark beamed pub was crowded, but they were lucky enough to walk in just as a pair of workmen were standing up from a table by a window. Their slightly confused expressions as they passed Draco and Scorpius made Draco give his son a stern look.

“They were done, anyway, Dad.”

“And you’d know that how, exactly?”

“Oh, honestly. Lighten up and let me buy you lunch, you crank.” 

Draco bit back another comment as they each pulled out a chair. Scorpius winked at the waitress who was clearing their table, and Draco rolled his eyes when she blushed and walked away. 

“She’s old enough to be your mother,” he said dryly. “And you’re a menace.”

“She’s fit enough to be a whole lot younger,” Scorpius grinned as he watched her sashay away. Draco slipped a grease stained lunch menu from between the salt and pepper shakers and the vinegar bottle and slapped it on the damp table top in front of his son. Scorpius’s charming smile reminded Draco of how he managed to get away with almost everything he’d ever wanted for the whole of his life. When people commented on how much Scorpius looked like Draco, he didn’t believe them; he’d always looked peaky and pinched, where Scorpius was jolly and smiling and charming. He did suppose their divergent up-bringing might’ve had something to do with that.

They’d ordered their lunches, Scorpius choosing the Shepard’s pie. He was startled when Draco ordered the fish n’ chips. 

“Oh, shut it,” Draco laughed. “It’s good.”

“I’m sorry; it’s just the idea of my father eating something that comes wrapped in Muggle newsprint. Admit it; the Muggles are having an influence on you.” Scorpius wiggled his eyebrows, and Draco shook his head. “So, who did the décor in Frombley’s?”

“You mean, ‘who vomited up Christmas’?” Draco said wryly.

Scorpius laughed. “Something to that effect.”

“Megan. Her father let’s her have her way with it. And as her taste is suspect on a good day…”

“She seems like a very nice person,” Scorpius said primly, clearly trying not to giggle. 

“She is. A very nice person. Whose taste is all in her mouth.”

“You can’t be as sour as you sound,” Scorpius gave him a look from beneath his brows as their lunch was delivered. 

“Can’t I?” Draco responded with a look very like Scorpius’s, and his son grinned at him as he dug into his Shepard’s Pie. He let the boy get half way through his lunch before he speared him with a direct look. “So, have you any intention of telling me what you’re actually doing here?”

Scorpius paused with his fork half way to his mouth. He took the bite and chewed, then swallowed it before he answered. 

“I was just wondering; have you ever considered teaching at Hogwarts?”

Draco stared into the grey eyes so like his own and felt as if the bottom had fallen out of his stomach.

TBC


	5. Frosty the Snowprank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part: 

Harry landed at the Apparition point nearest the Leaky Cauldron, stepping aside to be sure no one coming through this busiest of wizard destinations landed on him, or worse yet, splinched with him. That was a nightmare he’d carried around since learning it was possible, although he knew if it was likely he’d have heard of it happening at least once in his life. He paused to lean against the wall until his stomach settled back where it belonged; he still wasn’t much at Apparating, and it made him feel queasy until the ground was firmly beneath him. He could have floo’d directly into the Ministry, he supposed, but at least this way he got some fresh air after the journey, and he wasn’t likely to lose his breakfast with an audience. 

After a couple of moments he pushed upright, shrugging out of his heavy black wool travel cloak as he walked, leaving just Sirius’s old leather jacket over the black jumper and grey skinny jeans he wore. It had been thirty degrees colder in Scotland than it was in London, and there’d been a skiff of snow coating the crunchy grass as he’d walked down from the castle to the gates. Now that he was in town, it felt almost warm and he stepped out of the dark alley into the flow of Muggle London foot traffic. Reaching the door to the Leaky, he pushed through into the dim interior.

“Well, hello, Headmaster,” a cheery voice called, and Harry looked across the room to see Hannah Longbottom giving him a happy smile from behind the bar.

“Mrs Longbottom,” he replied with a smirk.

She grimaced. “Oh, dear Lord, don’t call me that. Makes me want to look over my shoulder for Augusta.”

Harry grinned. “Last I heard, I don’t think you need to worry about that likelihood.”

He made his way toward Neville’s pretty, apple-cheeked wife, her reddish brown hair curling around her shoulders as she leaned on the immaculate bar top. “Oh, I dunno about that, Harry. She hated me enough to make an effort to get back to haunt me for marrying her Nevvy.”

Harry shook his head. “If she’d had half an idea what she had in him while she still had the chance, they wouldn’t have been on the outs when the old bat died. And if she couldn’t see what he had in you, there was no hope for her.”

Her answering grin was brilliant. “I knew there was a reason I always liked you.”

Harry had always liked her, too, especially once she bought the Leaky from old Tom. It was difficult to believe on seeing the inside of the shining business it was now that it had ever been the dim, dingy old Inn of their childhood. The floors gleamed and the walls were bright with new paint, old candle lit fixtures replaced with bright electric sconces. The cracking leather of the seats had been replaced with bright blue, gold and pink patterned chintz. The fireplace was immaculate, cheery flames dancing warmly, the thick wooden mantle decked with fir garland and red berries. A tall Christmas tree sporting fairy lights, yellow ornaments and red bows stood in what had once been an unnaturally dark corner. He gestured toward it as he walked to her.

“House tribute?”

“After a fashion.” She shrugged casually. “We decided black really wasn’t much of a Christmas colour so he could have his red bows.”

“Kind of you.”

Her brown eyes sparkled. “I do what I can.” He laughed.

“Hannah, could I ask a favour?” He stopped across the bar from her.

“Of course. As long as you don’t want Nev to work Christmas Eve. I’ve an apron in back here with his name on it.”

That startled a laugh from him. “No, I’ve got Christmas Eve covered on my end. I was just wondering if you might have somewhere to stow this for an hour or two while I’m on an errand.” He laid his dark cloak on the bar.

“Oh course.” She took the heavy fabric and shook it out before laying it over her arm. “Heading out Christmas shopping?”

Harry grimaced. “I should be, but no. Heading over to the Ministry to see Ron.”

“Well, you tell Head Auror Weasley that I don’t appreciate the way his custom has dropped off since his promotion.”

“I imagine between the long hours and trying to keep up with the twenty year old recruits, he’s had to cut back out of self-defense.”

“Tell him he’s their boss, now; he doesn’t have to keep up with them, he just has to tell them what to do.”

Harry chuckled. “I’ll pass that advice along.”

“Bring him back here for lunch.” 

A whiff of something savoury caught Harry’s attention, and he inhaled. “Whatever it is you’re making smells fantastic.”

“Got an excellent buy on a large rib roast; that, mashed peas and Yorkshire pud. Pumpkin pasties and whipped heavy cream for afters.”

Harry groaned. “I just gained a stone listening to the description.”

She gave him an assessing look. “You aren’t as skinny as you were in school, but every bit you’ve put on has gone to exactly the right places. If you ask me, you’re looking very smart, professor.”

Harry felt his cheeks heat and he carried her laugh out into Diagon Alley with him.

It was early enough in the day the alley wasn’t as busy as it might have been, but it was after December first so he counted himself lucky it wasn’t a mob. Vendors hawked their wares at rolling carts set up along either side of the cobbled streets, and Christmas decorations were strung along the eaves, wreaths on the doors. The scent of roasted chestnuts and cider was thick on the air, and Harry smiled as he walked. There really wasn’t any place else like Diagon at Christmas, except perhaps Hogsmeade. The holiday seasons he’d celebrated since he came into the wizarding world had managed to almost completely eclipse those he’d been forced to endure with the Dursley’s. He glanced at the wares on display as he passed, thinking he’d stop and get one of the sparkly necklaces for Lils and a velvet scarf for Molly, then detour into Quality Quidditch for Al; Ginny complained he spoiled the kids, and he supposed he did. Being the pampered only daughter of a family that adored her, she’d never understand what Harry had gone through when he’d been little. If he was trying to make up for his own miserable holidays by indulging James, Albus and Lily, so be it. 

He bought a _Daily Prophet_ in front of Flourish and Blotts and was checking the Quidditch scores as he exited at the far end of the Alley. He was so engrossed he’d nearly passed the red phone box that held the entrance to the Ministry when he lifted his head and pulled up short. Standing inside the booth was a snowman, complete with two black button eyes, a carrot nose, and a heavy scarf around his neck. Above the door was a sign that read #snowmanjourney. 

Harry stared at it, bemused. As first a professor at Ilvermorny and then Headmaster of Hogwarts, he’d seen some interesting magic in his time. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a snowman in such an odd place before, however. He reached into his pocket and withdrew his mobile. It rang twice before it was answered.

“Weasley,” a deep voice said crisply.

“Hello, Mate.”

“Harry!” The pleasure in Ron’s voice warmed Harry, and he could almost picture him leaning back in his desk chair. In fact, he was fairly certain he could hear the springs protesting. “To what do I owe the unlikely pleasure?”

“Arse,” Harry said dryly. “I think you’ll find it was your turn to call me.”

“That’s a load of tosh,” Ron retorted. “I used this bloody thing to call you after the Cannon’s annihilated Hampstead.”

“So you did.”

“Are you ringing me up for an actual reason, or just so I can take the piss again?”

“No, actually. Thought I’d drop in to see you, it you’ve got a few.”

“Brilliant. I’m currently buried under a mound of crap paperwork. Come save me.”

“’Love to, Bloke. But I’m afraid I can’t get there from here.”

“Where are you?”

“Staring into the K2 box entrance, upstairs.”

“What, you’ve become such an old duffer you’ve forgot how?”

“No. Actually, there appears to be a snowman in the way.” 

“A what?”

“A snowman. What, you’ve become such an old duffer you’ve forgot what they are?”

“Sod off, you wanker.”

“I’m serious, Ron. There’s a snowman. In the phone box.”

There was silence from the other end of the line for several long seconds.

“Oh, that bloody git,” Ron said finally, going on to add several colourful curse words on after that would horrify his mother. Finally he broke off. “Hold on.” Harry heard the click as Ron put him on hold, and several minutes passed before the snowman, and the sign above it, disappeared in a puff of white powder. Harry grinned and entered the box, going through the steps to be lowered into the Ministry Atrium. He found Ron standing a few feet away, waiting, his feet braced and his broad shoulders set, his arms crossed over his chest. When he stepped out of the booth, Ron greeted him with a nod.

“Care to tell me what that was all about?” Harry asked.

“My idiot plonker of a brother,” Ron said in disgust. “He made some comment about thinking it looked like snow when we met for coffee this morning, and I thought he was off his nut. I do believe your first born probably helped him with that little stunt, by the way.”

Harry laughed. “He probably did. They seem to have a shared healthy appreciation for mucking the works.” 

Ginny had said from the time James was old enough to talk that she wouldn’t be surprised if he was Fred, re-incarnated, he and George had such an instant bond. There were times Harry almost agreed with her.

“That’s one way to put it,” Ron grumbled. “I suppose fucking snowmen will be turning up all over bloody London for the next month. Wankers.” Harry fell into step beside him as they made their way toward the lifts. “So, what can I do for you?”

“I can’t just drop in to see you?” Harry asked, suddenly and painfully aware of the number of people who were staring at them. There was no place Harry could go within the wizarding world where he felt his continued fame quite like within the Ministry. He’d pulled his fringe down over his forehead, worn contacts and even dressed a good decade younger than he had any right to, and still everyone stared. Even in Diagon, or Hogsmeade, or even in the halls of Hogwarts, people were not nearly as obvious about staring as they were here. Staring, and whispering, and it made his skin crawl.

“Well, I suppose you can,” Ron said. “Just that you don’t. Not that I’m complaining, mind you,” he held up his hand quickly. “This isn’t exactly on your way to work.” He grinned at his own quip, and Harry grinned back. 

“No, not like where I can just jog down a moving staircase.” They stepped onto the lift and a genteel, posh woman’s voice said; “Level one, Magical games and sports, Ministry informational offices, Magical Creatures and Headquarters of the Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare.” As it did every time Harry stepped onto a Ministry lift, the recitation of S.P.E.W.’s corporate office title made him grin. Ron interpreted the look correctly, and rolled his eyes. 

“Honest to Merlin, of all places for her to make an impact, it had to be _there_.”

“She’s brilliant,” Harry said fondly. “And I venture the folks at St Mungo’s think she makes an impact every day.

“Yeah, I’m sure they do.” Ron studied him. “So what’re you doing here?”

Harry returned Ron’s look, then gestured with his head to the people standing around them, unnaturally silent, obviously listening. “Can we wait until we get upstairs?” he murmured.

Ron, much quicker on the uptake than most people gave him credit for, scowled around him but nodded. “’course.”

“Fourth Level,” the woman’s voice intoned. “Department of Magical Law Enforcement and Auror Department.”

They left the lift and made their way down the long hallway, then through the offices of the DMLE and into the Auror Division beyond. They paused every few feet for Harry to say hello to someone, mostly people they’d both gone to school with or members of the Hogwarts Board of Governors, but several who Harry barely recognized in the heavy, ugly purple Wizengamot robes. By the time they reached Ron’s private office, Harry was tired of smiling and Ron looked thoroughly aggravated. 

“Fuck, I hate politicians. All they do all bloody day is swan around shaking each other’s hands. With the Wizengamot in session, it takes me fifteen minutes to get here from the lift. I can’t wait until they leave for Winter break.”

“You sound like me talking about the fourth years.”

Ron grinned weakly. “Frankly, I’d rather deal with all the firsties you got than that lot out there. Coffee?”

Harry nodded and dropped into the chair on the other side of Ron’s desk. “If you’re offering.”

Ron pushed up the sleeve of his red Auror’s robe and spoke into what looked like a sharp black and grey wristwatch. “Marium, coffee in mine, if you please.”

“Of course, Head Auror,” a slightly tinny voice responded. 

“And some of those cinnamon scones, if there are any left.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ron let his sleeve drop back into place, then sat back in his chair, his hands stacked behind his head and his booted heels propped on the scarred desktop. Harry wondered where all of the paperwork had gone, then saw the teetering pile in the corner. Ron gave Harry a wry grin.

“What?” Harry asked, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “What’s that look for?”

“Dressing pretty natty for a venerated Headmaster. We picked up a Sloane Ranger for lewd acts last week who had nothing on you.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Harry scowled at him.

“What? You can’t tell me those shoes are comfortable.” They were, but Harry wasn’t going to try to convince Ron of that. “I’m just trying to imagine Dumbledore in that get up.” Harry choked out a startled laugh. Ron held up his hand. “Although, if he were cruising the gay bars, he might’ve tried to force his bits into those pants.”

Harry made a gagging sound. “There is something so wrong with you.”

“You’re the one who’s bent, Mate. Not me. Now, what’re you doing here? Besides enjoying the pleasure of my company.”

“Oh, yeah, there’s that,” Harry retorted, voice thick with sarcasm. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if coming here had been the way to handle this, or a terrible mistake. Finally he decided it didn’t much matter; he was here now and Ron would never let it go. “Actually, I have some questions about a sentence that was handed down at the end of the war.”

Ron’s brow furrowed. “Whose?”

“Malfoy’s,” Harry answered, trying valiantly to ignore Ron’s eyeroll as he dropped his feet to the floor.

“Which one?”

Now it was Harry’s turn to roll his eyes. “The only one still alive who was already born in 1998.”

Ron shook his head. “I should’ve known this shit would come up eventually.”

TBC


	6. Deep Truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part: 

_Draco let the boy get nearly through his lunch before he speared him with a direct look. “So, have you any intention of telling me what you’re actually doing here?”_

_Scorpius paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. He took the bite and chewed, then swallowed it before he answered._

_“I was just wondering; have you ever considered teaching at Hogwarts?”_

_Draco stared into the grey eyes so like his own and felt as if the bottom had fallen out of his stomach._

It took him several seconds to recover his composure enough to speak. “No.” The word came out brusquely, more so than he intended. Scorpius’s eyes narrowed and Draco was reminded that his son was every bit as stubborn and single minded as he probably would have been at the same age, if the war hadn’t stolen his youth and promise and everything that went along with it. 

Scorpius’s chin lifted obstinately. “You know, you can’t avoid this forever.”

“I can’t?” Draco drawled. “I thought I was doing rather a good job of it so far.”

“Dad.” 

Scorpius’s expression was uncompromising. “Son,” Draco said softly. “We’ve discussed this.”

“No, we really haven’t,” Scorpius shot back. “You told me that the Wizengamot decided something a hundred years ago…”

“Oh, surely not _that_ long ago,” Draco teased, trying to lighten the mood at their table. It didn’t help much.

“Nearly,” Scorpius grumbled. “Listen, you’re the most brilliant potions mind of your generation – “

“Well, thank you for that,” Draco said, unaccountably pleased by Scorpius’s praise. 

“ -- and Hogwarts is currently without a potions professor. Couldn’t you at least – “

“No, Scorpius.” Draco’s temper got the best of him again, but his son showed no signs of backing down. “I couldn’t. There’s no point in setting myself up for the inevitable disappointment.” Draco leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I’ve been working in the Muggle world for nearly twenty years. I’m no longer even up on the latest potions and ingredients.”

Scorpius made a face at him. “Give me a break, Dad. You think I’ve never noticed the copies of Apothecary’s Quarterly laying around your flat?”

Draco scowled at him. “Clearly, you and I need to have a conversation about observing familial boundaries.”

“Merlin, you’re such a tight arse.” Scorpius ran his fingers roughly through his hair even as Draco glared at him.

“I don’t recall ever giving you permission to speak to me like that.”

Scorpius held up his hands, palm out, his cheeks turning pink. “Sorry, sorry. You’re right. I should always speak to you respectfully.”

“Yes, you should.”

“That doesn’t change the fact – “

“Scorpius, that is well beyond enough,” Draco said stiffly, and Scorpius crossed his arms over his chest but didn’t speak any further. He looked toward the window, his jaw tight, and the sight of his son’s pale face and high, tight shoulders made Draco feel a bit sick to his stomach. He’d always promised himself he would never use the ‘Lucius’ tone or facial expression on his son. And now, here he was doing precisely that. He signed deeply. “Son…”

“No, that’s all right.” Scorpius hunched forward and dug his fork into his lunch, careful not to look up again. “I’m over-stepping. This is your business, and pretty clearly you don’t want me in it.” It was the hurt in Draco’s son’s voice that got to him, made his throat ache. He rubbed his hands over his face, then dropped them into his lap. 

“When I was younger than you are now,” he began softly, “you know I did something – unforgivable.”

“Nothing is unforgivable, Dad.”

Draco looked up at him. “That isn’t true. Some things are. Letting monsters into your school, putting your schoolmates at risk, is unforgivable. Setting your Headmaster up to be murdered is unforgivable.”

“Severus Snape killed Albus Dumbledore because he had to, not because of anything you did.”

“I was there, Scorpius, and you weren’t. I know what I did.” 

“And doing something because a lunatic threatened your family isn’t the same as doing it because you think it’s the right thing!”

Draco stared at his son and felt as if he’d been struck. He and Scorpius had never discussed the horror that had been his sixth year; he hadn’t wanted to give himself excuses, or to make himself look like even more of a pathetic figure than he had been. “How do you even – “

Scorpius’s cheeks went bright pink. “Aunt Pansy,” he answered stubbornly. Draco sighed in exasperation, and he rubbed his hand roughly over his jaw. 

“Oh, that chatty cow.”

“That’s not very nice,” Scorpius scolded. “At least she tells me things.”

“Did it ever occur to you that some of those things, I might not want you to know?”

“She felt like it wasn’t fair for other people to know stuff about you that I don’t. Especially when they might try to use it against me. Like Magnus Baddock did during third year.”

Draco’s head jerked up and his eyes hardened. He could only assume that this Magnus character was related to the Malcolm Baddock who’d been a first rate little shite of a bully, even by Draco’s standards.

“What did he do? Did he hurt you?”

“No, Dad. But she has been watching out for me because you can’t, and there are some people in the wizarding world who have an issue with the name Malfoy. I guess you should know that.” 

Draco grimaced. 

“Yeah, well some of them are bastards.”

Scorpius bit back a smile. “Yeah, some of them are. And you and I both know there’s way worse names than Malfoy.”

“True.” Draco pursed his lips. “There’s always Macnair. And Yaxley.” The corner of his mouth curled.

“And Lestrange.” Draco’s eyes sharpened on his son’s face. “Aunt Pans told me about Grandmother’s sister. The crazy one.”

“Ah, lovely Bellatrix. The mad cow.” Draco cleared his throat. “You know your grandmother reconciled with her other sister before she passed.”

Scorpius nodded. “Andromeda. She told me. And I know him, you know. Teddy Lupin. He’s in Auror training now.”

“Of course he is,” Draco muttered, making a valiant effort not to sound bitter. “His father was a war hero.”

“And his godfather,” Scorpius said carefully. Draco nodded stiffly. 

“Well, yes. He’s rather _the_ war hero, isn’t he?” Draco was proud he kept the vast majority of bitterness from his voice.

“He’s been nice to me, you know,” Scorpius said quickly. “Really nice. I know he’s a good Headmaster, but I wish I’d had him for Defense. I gather he was brilliant.”

Draco stared into his plate, picking at a soggy chip. “He was,” Draco agreed. “Brilliant, I mean. I saw it, you know.” 

He hadn’t meant to say it, but it was out now, and had been on his mind for days. He leaned back in his chair, meeting Scorpius’s wide eyes. 

“No one ever talks about it,” Scorpius said, “other than in Magical history, and then they make him sound all…bigger than life, you know? Albus says he hates it.”

He doubted Potter hated it, but he wouldn’t bad mouth his son’s friend’s father. He’d never been that chuffed that Scorpius and Albus Potter had become friends, but once he’d met the boy he could only marvel for however much he looked like his father, he didn’t act like him.

“All I heard about the first war was how fucking brilliant the Dark Lord was,” Draco muttered. “But then, we all know Grandfather Malfoy had some interesting world views.”

Scorpius snorted; he knew his father and Lucius had basically hated one another at the end. Draco was never sorry Scorpius hadn’t met his grandfather. There was a long pause.

“So, you saw it, then?” Scorpius asked hesitantly. 

“Saw what?” 

Draco knew, but he wanted Scorpius to spell it out. It wouldn’t do for him to think it was something other than it was.

“Come on, Dad. You just said it.” Scorpius rolled his eyes. “The – end. You know.”

Oh, yes. He knew. Draco would never forget it; huddling in a corner with his parents, surrounded by witches and wizards who hated them. Funny how in that moment, no one had even seemed to notice them.

“Yes, I was there at the end.” Draco pushed is plate away. “And for all that Voldemort went on and on about how powerful he was, how great he was, how invincible he was, Harry Potter took him out with an ‘ _Expelliarmus’_.” Draco snorted and shook his head. “One of the first spells we all learned in Defense; how to disarm your opponent.”

“We talked about that one day, in Defense,” Scorpius mused. “How is wasn’t the spell necessarily, but the strength of the wizard who cast it.”

Draco mused on that. Severus had said something very similar one day; how the spell wasn’t nearly as important as the wand behind it. At the time, Draco thought he meant Voldemort but now he knew better; he was certain he’d been referring to Dumbledore. He also knew the only way he’d been able to disarm the old man was because he’d _let_ Draco do it. The reminder of how he’d set Potter’s mentor up for death, even though Severus and Dumbledore had planned it, reminded Draco of where the conversation had originated. With Hogwarts, and why his dream of teaching there would never be realized. Ever. He’d kept the particulars of his sentence a secret from Scorpius but he was nearly seventeen; it wasn’t fair for him to do that any longer. He opened his mouth to speak just as their waitress arrived at their table with their cheque and a large plate of Gingerbread cookies. The scent wafted to Draco, and he inhaled deeply without meaning to.

“They smell like heaven, don’t they?” she said with a bright smile. It suddenly dawned on Draco that she was smiling at _him_ , not at Scorpius. “They taste the same. And they’re on the house.”

“Oh, I can’t let you do that,” Draco protested. “There’s ten biscuits here.”

“Well, it looked like you two were having a very deep conversation. Personally, I’ve found that deep truths with a teenage offspring go down better with a ginger biscuit.” She winked at him. “But if there are any left when you’re done, I’ll let you buy them.”

Draco gave her a small smile, thinking he would definitely be buying some of the biscuits. Then he remembered the last time he’d fed Scorpius, and figured it was an even bet, either way. “Please add them to the tab.”

She gave him a fetching grin. “We’ll see.”

Draco watched her walk away, then looked back to his son to find him smirking at him knowingly. “Oh, please,” Draco said dryly. “You know how likely that is. I bat for the other team.” He’d never made any pretense otherwise to his precocious son.

Scorpius shrugged that off lightly. “Maybe you’ve changed your mind.”

Draco shook his head. “Not about that. But I have changed my mind about something else.” He held his son’s suddenly watchful gaze. “I haven’t wanted you to know about my sentence, at the end of the war. It was vanity, Scorpius, and unfair. I should’ve told you.”

Scorpius looked uncomfortable, and Draco cursed under his breath. “Pansy.”

His son shook his head quickly. “No, actually. It was Aunt Millie.”

Why that surprised Draco, he didn’t know. She had been and still was the most sensible of all of them.

“She told me a long time ago,” Scorpius went on. He picked up a biscuit and bit it’s cheery head off. “I never considered it was really none of my business.” He blushed sheepishly. “Sorry, Dad.”

“No, like I said, you needed to know.” He picked up a Gingerbread Man and nibbled at one hand. “But knowing, you understand that I could never teach at Hogwarts. I’ve a lifetime ban, Scorpius. It’s why I’ve never visited before, never come to the quidditch matches. I’m not allowed. I’m not allowed to be a part of the wizarding world, at all.”

It was stunning how much that still hurt.

Scorpius nodded thoughtfully, eating first one biscuit, then another, then another. Draco remembered eating his feelings when he’d been younger, too. Fortunately, all of the Malfoy’s apparently shared an over-active constitution.

Scorpius bit the head off of biscuit number four. “Dad, have you ever considered challenging your sentence?”

Draco stared at his son, frowning slightly. “No,” he answered honestly. “I deserve it.” He allowed himself a wry grin. “Besides, I doubt your current, illustrious Headmaster would like for me to teach Potions for him.”

“See,” Scorpius polished off biscuit four and reached for number five, “That’s where I think you’re wrong. It was Headmaster Potter’s idea to begin with.” 

Draco stared at him, his heart tripping into a faster rhythm. 

“What was?” Draco asked, certain he had to have misunderstood. 

“You teaching at Hogwarts; he brought it up to me. And why would he do that if he thought you’d never be able to?”

Draco stared into Scorpius’s young, unlined face and wondered just what Potter was about, suggesting such a thing to his son to begin with.

TBC


	7. Something Fishy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part: 

_“Actually,” Harry said slowly, looking across the desk at his oldest friend, “I have some questions about a sentence that was handed down at the end of the war.”_

_Ron’s brow furrowed. “Whose?”_

_“Malfoy’s,” Harry answered, trying valiantly to ignore Ron’s eyeroll as he dropped his feet heavily to the floor._

_“Which one?”_

_Now it was Harry’s turn to roll his eyes. “The only one still alive who was already born in 1998.”_

_Ron shook his head. “I should’ve known this shit would come up eventually.”_

Harry stopped by the Leaky to get his traveling cloak; it was bloody freezing, that horrid wet cold that bit through the skin and settled, literally painful, into the muscles and bones. The walk from the Ministry to the Leaky felt like miles, and for whatever reason, warming charms weren’t nearly as effective as a heavy cloak. Harry was shivering when he entered the old pub through the Diagon Alley entrance, and the savory scent of Hannah’s roast filled the crowded room along with the homey buzz of murmured conversations. Hanna was delivering lunch to a table in the far corner and she gave him a distracted wave, which was perfect. Harry really wasn’t in the mood to chat.

The girl behind the bar, Chelsea or something similar, fetched his cloak for him and Harry thanked her and settled it on his shoulders with a relieved sigh. He looked toward the Diagon Alley exit, then chose the London street door. He didn’t want to run into anyone he knew. 

The streets weren’t as crowded as he thought they would be, what with it being December, and figured that was due to the weather. It wasn’t raining or snowing, but the cold was discouraging if one merely wanted to stroll along the banks of the Thames. He didn’t really want a leisurely stroll; he needed to think. 

When Ron pulled up Draco Malfoy’s file on his computer, he’d merely handed the laptop to Harry. It was still something of a cultural shock for Harry to see computers inside of the Ministry, but he was certain it simplified things for a massive department like the DMLE. The board of Governors, in concert with some of the younger staff, had even found a way to make them work inside of Hogwarts. It hadn’t been easy; Harry was the one who finally figured out they needed to ask the castle’s permission before any new technology would work. Ron went back to the stack of paper work he’d pushed aside when Harry arrived, but Harry could feel his eyes flicking toward him every few minutes. Harry forgot all about his friend as he became engrossed in Draco’s record.

Most of what he read wasn’t new to Harry; the connection he’d shared with Voldemort’s mind had allowed him to see a lot of what Draco was charged with. The problem was that the element of coercion had been completely left out of the report. The file read as if Draco had cooperated with the Death Eaters of his own free will, and Harry knew that was not true. Draco hadn’t wanted to do any of it; he’d been present mostly because his fear and disgust entertained the sick, noseless bastard who made him do it. There was also nothing in the file about that night at the Manor, the night the war could have ended very differently than it had. The night Harry, Ron and Hermione had been taken prisoner by a group of snatchers, and it had been up to Draco Malfoy to identify them before Voldemort was summoned. 

He'd known who they were. There had been no mistaking the recognition in his eyes. All he’d had to do was tell his father and twisted aunt the idiot snatchers had happened upon the key to the Malfoy’s return to Voldemort’s good graces, and yet… he hadn’t done it. In a very real way he’d saved all of their lives that night, and yet none of it was in the file. 

“Can I see Narcissa’s file?” Harry asked. 

“Just type her name in up at the top of the page,” Ron answered distractedly. 

Harry did, and waited while the information loaded, chewing on his right thumb nail. He hadn’t bitten his nails in years, and yet immersing himself in the war time reports was bringing back all of the anxiety it had taken him years to push aside. He read through it quickly, then scrolled down to the bottom of the page, quickly scanning the information about the Battle of Hogwarts. When he was done, he sat back in the chair with a bemused sigh. The fact Narcissa Malfoy had literally saved his life wasn’t there. And Harry knew why; it was because he hadn’t been there to testify to it. Realizing what his absence had caused made him sick to his stomach.

Now Harry walked without really paying attention to where he was going. When blue lights suddenly dragged him from the inside of his own head, he was startled to see he’d walked all the way to Tower Bridge. There was a large pine tree next to the Thames walkway, completely covered in blue lights and the stunning architecture of the hundred year old bridge was outlined in white lights; it was beautiful, and a testament to the brilliance of some of the minds at work during the Victorian age. It was cold as bloody hell, but beautiful. Harry walked down to the edge of the walkway and leaned against the wrought iron fencing lining the river. Staring into the inky water, he let his mind drift back to the Malfoy’s and those tortured days right after the war, guilt leaving a bad taste in his mouth. He hadn’t felt guilty in years; it’s return wasn’t welcome.

He'd known some of the Death Eater sentences, of course. He’d asked; the problem was that Hermione and Ron had already left for Australia at that point, and everyone else thought he was cracking up due to stress. So everything they told him was heavily modified. They hadn’t been completely wrong about his mental health; he’d been a mess. He supposed dying did that to a person. And attending upwards of fifty funerals and memorial services, giving every eulogy he’d been asked to deliver. By the time he was done with them, he’d lost near a stone he hadn’t had to lose, his hair was falling out in clumps and he hadn’t slept a full night in weeks. He and Gin were at one another’s throats, and the fact he was staying at the Burrow didn’t help, but he really had nowhere else to go. There was Grimmauld Place, but he couldn’t even face the thought of it alone. His best friends, who he’d shared everything with, were gone. His family, such as it was, was gone. Everywhere he looked, a family was missing someone who had died while he hadn’t. And he felt guilty all of the time. So fucking guilty.

Kingsley was the one who finally came up with something of a solution, although Harry supposed it was actually Headmaster Agilbert Fontaine of Ilvermony who had suggested it. He’d sent the Ministry a letter, requesting a wizard ‘learned in the practical aspects of Defense Against the Dark Arts, and agile enough to instruct said practicals’, to assist their own DADA professor. He was apparently quite elderly, even by wizarding standards, and sought someone to act as assistant. As Kingsley told Harry when he came to the Burrow to talk to him about it, there were few wizards in the world who knew as much about defense against the dark arts as he did. With both Molly and Arthur encouraging him that ‘it might be good for him to go somewhere new for a while’, which Harry read as they’d like for him to get out of their house and stop arguing with their only daughter even though they’d never say it, he agreed to go for six weeks. He stayed for six years.

Professor Bassett, the American DADA professor, was originally from Surrey. He was also the most patient man Harry had ever met, including Dumbledore, and a good deal of that patience was with Harry. He didn’t lose control of his magic anymore, but he did lose control of his temper, which was almost worse. But Bass, as he insisted Harry call him, never scolded him or recriminated him, just spoke to him calmly and kindly. The students were a bit in awe of him, which was annoying, but the scenery on the tallest peak of Mount Greylock in Massachusetts fed his soul. He heard from Ron and Hermione often; he knew when they found her parents and the effort she had to put in to helping restore their memories. He knew when Ginny was drafted by the Harpies and what the rest of their circle of friends was up to, but for some reason the fact Draco and Narcissa Malfoy had not gone to prison but had basically been banned from the wizarding world just never came up. As if it wasn’t important enough to mention. More likely someone thought it better if he didn’t know anything about the Malfoy’s at all.

He sighed and ran his very cold fingers through his hair. He’d been home for nearly two decades. He knew Scorpius Malfoy, well. He was one of his middle child’s best friends. How had he managed to go all of this time and not know the outcome of their trials? How had it just escaped his interest that Draco and his Mum had been stripped of almost all of their assets and nearly all of their magic? They weren’t allowed to live or work in the wizarding world. They’d been able to keep their wands, but they were monitored twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. If a single spell deemed ‘unnecessary’ was performed, they were forced to appear at the Ministry to explain themselves. Narcissa had been gone for years, but perhaps cruellest of all to Draco was that he wasn’t allowed to step foot on Hogwarts grounds. Which meant that as a parent, he couldn’t even come to Quidditch matches, or visit on parents day to see his son. Harry found the whole thing both cruel and infuriating.

The more Harry thought about it, the more he wondered if there hadn’t been something fishy involved in his complete lack of interest in someone who had dominated his thoughts for much of his sixth year at Hogwarts. Someone who he’d very nearly killed, but someone whose life had been important enough to him that Harry had saved it. Someone whose mother had saved his. He thought perhaps a conversation with his best friend was in order, very soon. She was the only one he could think of who might be capable of such spellwork, and if she hadn’t done it herself, she’d know who did.

Harry looked up into the dark sky. There were no stars visible above London; for that he’d need to return to Hogwarts. If it was clear in Scotland, the sky would be like black velvet scattered with hundreds of diamond stars. It was one of the things he loved about it most. That and the sound of the wind through the trees in the Forbidden Forest. He never went into the forest anymore. Going back to the sight of his death seemed entirely too much like returning to the scene of the crime, but he loved the sound of the wind. And the soft splash of the giant squid's long tentacles when he surfaced in the Black Lake. And the castle; every stone, every alcove, every psychotic poltergeist and impractical staircase, he loved them all. 

Standing there, staring up into the overcast sky but seeing the silhouette of the great castle beside the lake, he knew Draco Malfoy felt the same. Banning him from returning, even if just to see his son, was a vindictiveness Harry simply could not allow to stand. Whether Malfoy appreciated it or not.


	8. A Hogwarts Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Propmt for this part: 

Draco usually had one full and one half day off each week. He slept in on the full day, something that was a true luxury at this point in his life as long as he wasn’t having dreams about the Manor and Potter, neither of which had shown up again since the first night. After sleeping in (to at least nine, if he was lucky and his downstairs neighbors, three boys from Uni, weren’t in the mood for a head banging, brain destroying early morning rock concert), he usually had a cup of tea in front of his dark fireplace and read a good book. Currently he was making his way through _Beneath A Scarlet Sky_ by Mark Sullivan. It was not light reading, but it was riveting: the story of a young Italian man who, through a twist of fates, becomes the driver for Hitler’s head of commander in Italy during WWII. 

Pansy thought he was mad, of course. 

“I will never again in my life read anything about a war,” she’d said, nose wrinkled in distaste. She’d picked it up to look at, but when Draco told her what it was about she’d curled her lip and dropped the book back on his kitchen counter. “And I don’t know how you can.”

Draco merely shook his head. “It’s a brilliant book, Pans. Many about wars are.”

She shuddered, walking away from him with her tea in hand.

Once he was done with his leisurely morning, he’d usually dress casually and go to the market. When he was first dropped into the Muggle world after the war, he’d been totally at a loss. He hadn’t known how to work the hob, or cook for himself, and the six years in Switzerland had really only taught him how to order in. (Thank Merlin for Severus’s money; he’d have starved without it.) House elves were out of the question, and he’d even been confused about working the lights in the place. Pansy once again had saved his arse, buying him a mobile and a laptop and teaching him to use them. He’d been initially astonished but ultimately grateful for the wonders of the internet. And to his complete surprise, once he learned how not to burn everything he put in a pan, he found he really enjoyed cooking, but baking was a true joy. The mixing of ingredients, then adding heat, reminded him of potions, and he’d always excelled at it. Pansy wasn’t terribly gracious about his success; her meals were an unmitigated disaster on good days, a fire hazard on bad. But she loved his cakes and cookies, so kept the worst of her personal insults to herself. 

Draco pushed his trolley down the baking aisle at Waitrose, adding a small bag of flour and icing sugar, making a mental note to go past the dairy aisle and pick up some Irish butter. His mother would disown him, but he thought it tasted better than the English equivalent. Thinking of his mum always made him feel a bit melancholy, particularly this time of year. She didn’t do the baking or the decorating at the Manor; the house elves did all of that. But like a general during a particularly important campaign, she supervised everything with an iron hand. The corner of his mouth twitched. Oh, the battles she’d waged with the fifteen Christmas trees, the five hundred luminaires that lined the drive from the gates to the house, the snow removal in very. Neat. Straight. Lines. He could still hear her, her cut glass tones carrying on the cold night air.

“I want those berms at right angles, Wimbly. Use a t-square if you must, but cut it sharp!”

Poor old Wimbly; he’d looked so at a loss. But Draco recalled that the drive was always immaculate, and the edges of the snow berms very sharp, indeed. 

He finished up his shopping, bearing in mind not to over load his cart; that the walk home wasn’t far, but the three flights up to his flat were steep. He got in one of the long lines, perusing the newspapers and magazines as people moved, very slowly, toward the young woman at the till. 

“Afternoon, sir,” she said with one of those brilliantly bright salesclerk smiles that set his teeth on edge. He gave her a quick tip of his head, trying for a smile and imagining it was more of a grimace. “You know,” she chattered, “I don’t know how far you live, but if you ever wanted to add more products to your purchase you could have them delivered. Loads of our older customers do that.”

Draco stiffened, but she either didn’t notice, or didn’t value her life. 

“We even offer a service where the delivery person will come in and put them away for you; that way you could add meat or dairy and wouldn’t have to worry about them sitting on the counter all afternoon while you’re at work. You know, if you still do that.” Draco could feel icicles forming on the corners of his lips and apparently the young clerk finally noticed his less than thrilled reception to her idea. “Just a thought,” she muttered, quickly handing him his change. She kept so much distance between them, stepping away from him so that she backed into the partician behind her and she had to stretch her arm out over the counter. For a moment he wondered if he was putting off some sort of nasty, unconscious stinging hex from his fingers. Then he realized that no, that wasn’t it; it was the youngish man in the dark sportscoat standing at the front of the store giving her a flat glare that was doing it.

As Draco collected his two fabric bags from the pimply young man bagging his groceries and stepped out of the line, the man approached him.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, sir,” he said with an ingratiating smile. “Tricia is new. I’m quite certain she didn’t mean to insult you.”

Draco looked into the man’s warm brown eyes and noted the deferential smile. His name tag read Mr Conyers, but Draco would have known he was middle management even without the badge. 

“She didn’t,” Draco lied. “She’s really quite friendly. And the young always think anyone their parents age must be dreadfully old.”

“If she thinks that, she truly is a silly chit,” the man had lowered his voice and leaned forward. “I’ve noticed you in here before, and old, sir, you are not. I’m Michael, by the way.” He offered his hand with a slight smile.

Draco felt some of the icicles return to his eyes. “Draco Malfoy,” he ignored the extended hand, lifting his shopping bags as if they kept him from taking it, “and I’ve a son not much younger than you are, so Tricia wasn’t far from the mark.”

“But an age difference can be so… interesting, don’t you think? I’ve always felt like someone older than I am has so much to teach me. Don’t you agree?” His meaning was abundantly clear, and his expression was smarmy enough Draco wanted to wash his hands without shaking the offered one.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Draco answered, angling his head to one side. “I’ve always felt someone so much younger than I am merely exhausting. We have so little life experience in common” He let a cool smile touch his lips, and saw the moment, when the gentle brush off registered. “Nice to meet you Mr Conyers.”

The young man, face the colour of a Gryffindor seekers robe, nodded briskly. “Pleasure.” 

It sounded anything but.

Draco’s spirits were lifted by the encounter, and he found himself whistling as he walked along King’s Road, then taking a right onto Cheltenham Terrace. When he arrived at his building, he glanced up as he started to climb the steps in front of his building, and took a staggering step, managing to retain his balance before he tripped and fell on his face. Far above, sitting on the ledge outside his kitchen window, was a beautiful snowy white owl and she blinked down at him as if to say, ‘well, move along, you prat. I haven’t got all day.’ Catching his breath, Draco pushed through the front doors and ran up the stairs.

By the time he arrived on the third floor and stood outside the door to his flat, he thought he might die from the exertion. He sucked in great lungs full of air as he dug his keys from his pocket, dropped them, then bent to collect them again. He finally got the door open and rushed through the sitting room, dropping the groceries on the small sofa and rushing into the kitchen as if afraid the bird might leave before he got there. It was silly, he supposed, but he’d never got a single owl at this address. In fact, he’d not received anything by owl post since before he left for Uni in Switzerland, and his heart pounded in an uncomfortable combination of nervous anticipation and fear. He fought with the sash for several seconds, afraid he wasn’t going to be able to get it open when it finally gave with a crash and the window slammed open. The bird looked at him as if he were an idiot, and he wasn’t sure she was wrong. She looked at him, gold eyes clearly saying ‘or you are hopeless, aren’t you?’ Draco gave her a look that was equal parts embarrassment and exasperation. 

“Well? You coming in or not?” he asked, then felt stupid for talking to a bloody bird.

She lifted from the ledge and floated into the kitchen, holding out her leg in an imperious gesture. Draco saw what she was carrying, and he went lightheaded and his knees simply went out from under him. He sank gracelessly to the floor, staring at the bird but not seeing her any longer. 

It was the first piece of owl post he ever remembered getting, and some of the last. The first was his long awaited, much anticipated Hogwarts letter, and the last a quick note from Millie right after he and one year old Scorpius had moved into this flat, when Scorpius had the bedroom and Draco the sofa. She’d been apprenticing under Pomfrey at Hogwarts during the last year the old witch had worked there. He’d hated having to tell Mills not to write, that he was in a Muggle neighbourhood. Millie had been fortunate enough to have parents who stayed the hell out of the war and a wife from France who was so singularly fierce the Ministry hadn’t dared tell her anything. She’d taken up Muggle post specifically for him. 

And now there was a letter from Hogwarts attached to a snowy white owl. The only time he’d ever seen one more beautiful was the bird Potter had during their school years. He’d read about her death in Granger’s book about the war, and he’d die before he’d admit it made him cry. Hedwig was such a fixture at Hogwarts, more Potter’s friend than mail delivery. Draco felt real grief for the petite, regal creature and, he was loathe to admit, for the boy who’d been her wizard. They’d seemed so attached to one another at Hogwarts, much more friends that Draco and his mother’s bird, Aries. It had just been another thing he’d been envious of; Gods, he’d been an obnoxious little bitch.

He took a shaky breath, as deep as he could, as the current bird floated down to settle next to him on the floor. “You’re quite lovely, aren’t you?” he said to her, his voice trembling. She pecked him on the hand impatiently, as if to say ‘I have things to do, slacker.’ “Well, that’s wasn’t very nice.” The look she gave him said more clearly than words that she didn’t care what he thought. Draco forced another deep breath, then lifted hands that were shaking so hard it took him two tries to take the envelope from her leg. Once he had, and she’d left in a huff because Draco had no owl treats to offer, he could only stare at the sharp, crisply written lines of a decidedly masculine hand on the front. ‘Draco Malfoy’ was all it said. No address, just his name. 

“Figures,” he said, sounding faintly hysterical even to himself. “Arrogant arse. Why would Harry Potter need to include an address?”

For who else could the very official looking post possibly be from, then the Headmaster of Hogwarts? Draco slipped his thumbnail beneath the red wax seal, popped it free from the parchment and opened the missive, closing his eyes tight as he did. 

Taking another deep breath, and after waiting several seconds, Draco forced his eyes open as he read the salutation on the note.

 _Malfoy_ it read…

TBC


	9. Insanity Among Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Photo for this prompt: 
> 
> Thank all of you who have been so kind and patient with your comments, waiting while my computer illiterate self attempted to resurrect a tired old machine. I appreciate you not throwing up your hands in disgust more than you'll ever know. Hopefully, from here on out we shouldn't have any more issues. (I'm knocking on wood, because that assumption feels a bit dangerous at the moment! Lol.) Anyway, thanks again, and Happy Holidays! I'll be catching up over the next couple days - then back to our regular posting schedule (fingers crossed)

Harry felt like he’d been holding his breath ever since he’d sent Phaedra to Malfoy. The beautiful white bird, very similar to Hedwig in appearance except larger and a good deal bitchier, was even now asleep on her perch in his office, her attitude rendering her above perching with the other birds in the owlery, at least in her own opinion. Harry knew he indulged her, but he didn’t care. She reminded him so much of his old friend that he could deal with her idiosyncrasies. 

Hermione sat across the desk from him, one of the hard chairs that usually sat in front of the desk transformed to a very pretty overstuffed armchair upholstered in a Christmasy plaid that matched the ribbon on the tree in the corner, her shoes on the floor and her feet pulled up under her as she nursed a cup of hot chocolate. His quarters and office had been silently decorated over the course of one night, and he awoke to the cheery trees and garlands, one even draping his headboard as he slept under it. He had no idea how they did that, decorating around him without ever disturbing his sleep. If they wanted to trade in the white tea towels for black ninja suits, they could take over the world. 

Harry and Hermione had been discussing Horace’s memorial service, scheduled to take place the following Tuesday. They’d managed to schedule the time and place, but Harry was distracted by his post. He hadn’t realized Malfoy probably wouldn’t be responding by Owl Post until after he’d sent the bird, and had damned himself for a fool ever since.

“Whatever are you looking for?” Hermione asked in a sharp tone as he went through the stack of letters again, carefully one at a time. He looked up at her.

“What?”

“What. Are. You. Searching. For.” She gave the pile of mail under his hand a pointed look.

Harry hesitated. He’d almost decided to discuss this with Hermione, anyway. After all, no one loved a cause as much as she did, particularly when it was a just one. He stopped shifting through the post and looked up at her, then sat back in the huge, throne like chair. He always felt a bit of a phoney sitting here; it had been Dumbledore’s, after all, and he glanced up at the old man’s portrait to fine him snoozing peacefully, his hands crossed over his stomach. 

“Okay,” he began tentatively, “I would appreciate it if you’d just listen before making a judgement call about what I’m going to say.”

She arched a brow. “I’m afraid you’ve confused me with my husband. He’s the one who tells you your ideas are mad. I’m the best friend who listens patiently and pats you on the arm, remember?”

Harry snorted softly but smiled. “You’re probably going to think I’m mad. I’m prepared for that.”

She shrugged one shoulder, her pink cable knit jumper a lovely shade against her tawny skin. Ron was away in France at a symposium, so Hermione was visiting Rose and Hugo for the weekend. Officially, just to prevent anyone from gossiping about her and the Headmaster, she was staying in guest quarters on the fourth floor but was with Harry if she wasn’t with her children. She crossed her legs on the seat cushion of her transfigured chair and gave him a patient, but expectant look.

“Okay, this actually began with a conversation I had with Rosie the other day. Rosmerta, not your Rosie,” he clarified. He steepled his fingers on his chest over the blue denim button down he wore. His Headmaster’s robes were tossed over the side of the desk in front of him. 

Hermione’s eyes brightened. “So I expected. As brilliant as my daughter is, she's not much of a conversationalist at four. But, how is Rosmerta?”

Harry smiled. “She’s well. A great nag when she wants to be. There’s something off about trying to be Head when there are so many people around who knew you when you were eleven.”

“I imagine some of that is adjusted by them having watched you kill a Dark Lord.” She grinned wryly.

Harry grimaced. “Not so you’d notice.” She grinned at him.

“So, about this conversation with Rosmerta?”

“Right.” Harry crossed one of his legs, settling his ankle on his knee. “We, Rosmerta and I,” were discussing how now that Horace is gone I’d be searching for a new Potion’s Prof, and she made a suggestion. She suggested…” He hesitated, then forced himself to go on. “Malfoy.”

Hermione blinked. “ _Draco_ Malfoy?” As soon as she’d said the words she rolled her eyes. “Merlin, what a stupid question; of course you meant Draco.” She looked over toward the massive fire place, where in a large fire crackled warmly. “I imagine he’d more qualified than anyone who you could consider, but…” She bit her lip. “Isn’t there something in his sentence?” It looked to Harry as if she was having a hard time remembering, when she _never_ forgot anything.

“Weird, isn’t it?” Harry said. “How neither of us seem to be able to remember what his sentence actually _was_?”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean? I can remember. I just wasn’t that interested in the particulars. We all had other things going, if you’ll recall.” Her voice had gone a bit sharp.

“Yes, I know,” Harry said gently. “You were in Australia looking for your parents, and I’d hared off to Ilvermorny.”

“Hared off,” she repeated with distaste. “You had just been through a horrific experience with a ghastly war, and they offered you a teaching position in a place that had no bad memories for you. I thought you’d enjoyed it.”

“I did. Very much, or I doubt I’d have stayed six years.”

“We were so worried about you,” Hermione mused, her eyes taking on a bit of a distracted look. “We had to go after my parents, but hated the idea of leaving you here alone.” She gave him a wry look. “And yes, I knew you weren’t alone, but you and Gin were in such a weird place. I think we held our breath the whole time she was visiting you. But then you came home, and the two of you were married, and we thought – “ She seemed to shake herself from her reverie. “I’m sorry; that was tactless.”

Harry shook his head. “It’s fine. I was 23 years old, and did what I thought was the right thing at the time. I’d not trade my kids for anything, so it wasn’t all bad.”

Hermione grimaced. “I hate that’s how you think of it, though.”

Harry shook his head. “It doesn’t matter anymore. We’re good, the kids are good. But Hermione,” he gave her a direct look. “Did you notice anything weird about this conversation?”

She straightened slightly. “Not really.” She frowned. “We were talking about the fact that Rosmerta recommended… someone for the post of Potion’s prof, and – “

She stopped abruptly, staring at Harry, her eyes and mouth wide. 

“She recommended Malfoy for the position.” Harry stared back.

“Right,” Hermione murmured. “But – “

“Something else seemed so much more important,” Harry filled in for her. “Anything seemed so much more important.”

“You think someone has done something to our memories.”

Harry nodded. “I do, yeah.”

“But, why?”

“Because they didn’t want us looking too closely at Malfoy’s sentence after the war. Not just his, but his mother’s, too.”

She shook her head. “Harry, they couldn’t hex the whole of wizarding Britain, and that’s what it would take to keep his sentence from being looked at if it were unjust.”

“Not true, Hermione. All it would take would be you, and me. Think about it; who else on our side would’ve even cared about Malfoy’s sentence?”

She rubbed her fingers over her mouth. “I don’t know, Harry.”

“Okay.” He shifted things on his desk around, then handed Hermione a file. “Just read this, and tell me if we’d have blown it off so utterly if there wasn’t something weird involved in it.”

She took it from him with a vaguely skeptical expression, but flipped it open on her lap and began to read. There was a soft bell tone behind him, and Harry jumped up from his seat and went to a small door in the wall, nearly hidden in its small gold frame. Between the woodwork, and the jumble of frames around it, it looked quite simply like a painting of a doorknob. Harry pulled it open, revealing the small compartment. There were several pieces of mail and a small package, and he grabbed them up before closing the door again.

He sifted through the envelopes but the address on the package caught his eye.

“Oh, there’s something here from Dean and Seamus.”

Hermione glanced up. “What is it?”

Harry gave her a sardonic look. “I’m good Hermione, but even I can’t see through packaging.”

She giggled and went looked back down to the file in her lap, as if a bit confused as to why she was reading it. Fortunately, Harry knew his best friends was brilliant, and he had no doubt she’d begin to see what had become so obvious to him.

He tore at the brown paper on a small package, opening the box and finding a note card on top of tissue paper within. He picked it up and opened it, recognizing Dean’s distinctive handwriting.

 _Harry,  
Gods, we can’t wait to get home. American is fun and all, but the weather in Southern California, for all that it feels like summer all the time, **doesn’t** feel remotely right for two weeks ‘til Christmas. And after this assignment, Seamus and I both know we’re not much for teaching, so don’t even bother asking. The Head here asked if we were interested in joining the teaching staff at the academy, and we told him not bloody likely, and suggested he send his new recruits to train in London. I actually think he might be considering it. Fuck, Weasley will have my arse if he suddenly has to develop some sort of international exchange student thing. Sounds more like something his wife would do._ Harry smirked; it did, actually. ‘Auror Exchange for International Cooperation’, or the AEIC. Ron would kill Dean if Hermione ended up with one more thing on her plate. _Anyway, I’m off. See you at the Burrow Christmas Eve. Oh, and Seamus and I were in West Hollywood yesterday, and saw something that immediately made us think of you. It’s a brilliant area adjacent to Hollywood proper; remind me to tell you about the bar we went to. Don’t work too hard, Headmaster; it’s bad for your health. Cheers, Dean and Seamus._

Below that was written in Seamus’s unruly scrawl; _Don’t open this with a crowd around._

Harry frowned and pealed back the tissue, then picked up a tiny fragment of cloth attached to what looked like a shoestring. He stared at it, then groaned. “Oh, sweet Jesus,” he muttered. “The idiots.”

“What?” Hermione asked, looking up at him with a frown between her brows.

Harry actually considered trying to hide it, but knew it wouldn’t do him any good. 

“Our friends are morons,” he finally answered, tossing her the scrap of white cotton with stylized printing on the front. She looked at it with momentary confusion, then what she was reading registered and she began to giggle with uproarious delight.

The white thong slipped from her fingers onto the desk top, and in red and green ink was printed on the front; “When I think of you, I touch my elf.” 

“I’m going to have to burn the fucking thing,” Harry said. “I can’t risk one of the elves finding it in my underwear.”

She covered her mouth, but her giggles slipped through her hand. 

Harry picked it up and looked at the slender elastic that made up the back of the thong. “Merlin, wearing this would be like having dental floss up your arse.”

She sputtered. “Never worn a thong, Headmaster?”

“Have you, _Healer_?” 

Her cheeks went pink. “I confess nothing. Let’s just say… my husband is a fan.”

“Oh, Lord.” Harry scowled and tossed the skimpy scrap of underwear back into the box. “That image will never leave my head as long as I live.”

“Good thing you’re gay,” Hermione said merrily. “I doubt Ron wants you imaging me in a tiny little thong.”

Harry shuddered. “Gin had some tiny underwear, but not that tiny.” He read the printing across the front once again. “They’re insane.”

“How did they manage to be a couple for so long without any of us realizing what was going on?” she murmured, looking back down at the file on her lap.

“They’re sneaky bastards, that’s how.” Harry tossed the small box aside and went still. The correspondence under the box was upside down, but on the flap of the envelope was neatly printed _D. Malfoy_ , and Harry grabbed it up.

He tore the flap open and pulled out a small piece of elegant off-white stationary. There were two sentences in neat, spare writing, and Harry read them, a smile creeping across his face. 

_Potter,  
Far be it for me to suggest that the ‘great and powerful wizard of Hogwarts’ might be mistaken about anything. If you still desire it, I will discuss your theory at your convenience. _

_D.Malfoy_

“What are you grinning about?”

Harry looked up at Hermione, then slid the paper across the desk, into her hand.

She read it, then touched the paper to her chin. “You know,” she mused, “before today, I’d have told you I thought you were mad, but sitting here I find I can’t seem to concentrate on this Ministry report. In fact, if you’d asked me to read this before I cast the counter curse for a simple ‘notice me not’ charm, I doubt I’d remember what it was about between one sentence and the next.”

“So you think there’s something off about it?”

“Very much so.” She closed the report. “I gather that means I need to discuss it with Ron.”

“Hermione, Ron already knows we’ve somehow been tampered with.”

They stared at each other, and her eyes narrowed and hardened. Harry was abruptly glad she wasn’t his wife. “Oh, really. Then it would appear my husband has some explaining to do.”

Harry hoped Ron would speak to him again.

TBC


	10. Frombley is Full of Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: 

Draco counted the blue and gold capsules for Mrs Carmichael’s depression medication, making sure he had the exact number specified on the prescription, then counted them again before slipping the meds into the pill bottle. He checked the label, initialled it and dropped the bottle into a plastic bag before hanging it under the initial ‘C’ on a rack behind him. He picked up the next order off the top of a stack at Mr Frombley’s elbow, checking to see if it was for a medication they normally carried in bulk. 

“Meggie,” Mr Frombley called through the open pass through door, “did you bring any of those ginger biscuits this morning?”

“They’re in the blue tin on your desk, Daddy,” Megan answered, taping yet another length of sparkly garland to an end cap. When he’d walked in that morning, each of the over-decorated Christmas trees had at least a dozen brightly wrapped packages beneath, tags hanging from them with nauseating sentiment’s like, ‘To: Draco, Because you’ve been so good! Love: Santa Claus’. He’d been tempted to tell her to take his name off of anything so obnoxious, but he bit his lip. She was so pleased with herself even he couldn’t bring himself to burst her bubble. He was also fairly certain there was so many Christmas decorations adorning the small store, it could be seen from space.

“You’ve got to try these biscuits, Draco,” Mr Frombley said, removing the rubber gloves he’d been wearing to mix a child’s cough syrup and scuttling into his office. “They are truly brilliant.”

“I’m certain they are,” Draco murmured, thinking nothing of the sort. If these biscuits were the same as Megan’s chocolate cupcakes, they’d be as hard as a rock and burned, to boot. When Mr Frombley came back with an odd assortment of biscuits on a paper plate, Draco glanced over at them, alarmed when he realized the dozen sweets of every shape, size and colour were all supposedly from the same recipe. 

“Have one,” Frombley entreated, and Draco saw the pleading in his pale blue eyes. Draco studied the sugar encrusted biscuits and realized Megan had come to the open door and was watching him anxiously. _Fuck me,_ he thought, choosing one of the smaller sweets that wasn’t baked quite as dark. He took a nibble, chewing, forcing any expression from his face. The biscuits tasted burnt, and yet were an unpleasant sort of gummy texture at the same time. “Hmmm,” he mumbled, curling his lips into an approximation of a smile. Apparently that was good enough; Frombley’s face lit up in gratitude, and Megan blushed and simpered. 

“Really,” Draco finally managed, taking a sip of his coffee as soon as he could swallow. “Lovely.”

“Thank you.” Megan all but did a curtsy and then went back to her garland draping, and Frombley winked at Draco.

“Good man,” his employer muttered, and Draco thought he deserved a raise for putting the offensive combination of ingredients in his mouth. He’d had more unpleasant things cross his palate, but he wasn’t sure he could remember when. The last time he’d sucked someone off, and it had been a while, the man’s jizz had tasted better. 

“So, what are you doing for the holidays?” Mr Frombley asked. 

“My son will be home from school,” Draco answered. “I imagine we’ll go out for Christmas dinner.”

Draco realized his mistake as soon as Frombley’s bright eyes turned to him. “Oh, no such thing,” he cried. “You and your son should Christmas with us!”

Draco went still, staring at his hands. He was certain his expression was the embodiment of ‘deer in the headlights’. _Oh, dear God_ he thought, his stomach leaping into his throat, _how the bloody hell do I get out of **this**?_ Oh, I couldn’t impose…”

“Don’t be silly. You wouldn’t be imposing. In fact, we’d be delighted to have you and Scorpian.”

“Scorpius,” Draco corrected absently, seeing Megan’s pleased face as she used a yard of tape to attach a foot of garland to the wall. Ah, this was about getting Scorpius to the table, Draco realized. And he loved his son entirely too much to do that to him, even at the risk of upsetting his employer. He searched his brain frantically before settling on the most benign lie he could come up with. “Actually, I imagine Scorpius will be spending time with his girlfriend on Christmas.” Last Draco had heard, there was a young lady named Melusine Scorpius was fond of, so it wasn’t exactly a lie. “I couldn’t commit him to anything without fear of offending the young lady and her parents.”

“Oh, of course not,” Frombley said, even as Megan’s face fell. “But what about you? Surely…”

“Oh, no,” Draco managed to cut him off gently. “Sincerely.” He lowered his voice. “Christmas simply doesn’t mean to me what it once did,” he said. It was more honest than he’d intended to be, but it made him feel better about making his excuses. “I’ve lost most of my family, and I find the holidays a – bit of a challenge, truthfully.” His own unexpected bald honesty took Draco off guard and he swallowed before going on. “Scorpius and I will exchange gifts and he’ll be off while I’ll probably have a toddy and read a good book. Don’t worry about me.”

But old Frombley apparently did worry. He frowned in concern and reached out, laying his hand on Draco’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Draco. I didn’t think you might have lost someone. Do forgive me.”

Draco shook his head, clearing his throat roughly. “Nothing to forgive. I’ll enjoy the lie in, honestly.”

“If you’re sure – “

“Quite sure.”

“Well, the invitation is open should you change your mind.”

Draco gave the old man a fond look. “Thank you, sir.”

“Draco,” Frombley shook his head with an affectionate smile. “Roland. The name is Roland.”

“Roland,” Draco repeated, knowing he’d never use the man’s first name. 

“Excellent. Now, would you mind calling Gleason’s for me? They’re sitting on our order again, and we simply must have those printed bags before next week. We always get a run on candy and small appliances right before Christmas, and I don’t want product going out of the store without the Frombley logo on it. Helps business, don’t you know? And old Gleason seems a bit intimidated by you where he isn’t by me.”

“Of course.” Draco didn’t mind calling the company that provided them the bags at all; Gleason wasn’t intimidated by Draco; Fred, their man in phone orders, was queer as a gay parade and he had a crush on Draco. He always put a rush on the orders when Draco called. It gave Draco a lift to know he hadn’t lost his touch, at least on the telephone. He walked into the office and sat behind Frombley’s cluttered desk, reaching for the old-fashioned roll-a-dex. Thirty second later the phone was ringing on the other end. 

“Gleason’s Printing,” a young woman said on the other end. 

“Fred, please,” Draco answered, the waited while she put him on hold. 

He was still holding when Mr Frombley came into the office, closing the door behind him and leaning against it. He looked wide eyed and breathless and frankly, a little terrified, and Draco frowned in concerned.

“Sir, are you all right?”

Frombley licked damp lips, clutching his hands in front of him. “Draco, I’m hoping you can explain to me…”

Alarm kicked down Draco’s spine. “Explain what, sir?”

“I hope you can explain why Hermione Granger and Harry Potter are standing outside at the counter, asking for you.”

Draco blinked. Granger and Potter were here, now? He stared into Mr Frombley’s flushed face. Potter had said he wanted to talk to Draco about his sentence, and Draco had said he would be more than willing to talk about it ‘at Potter’s convenience’, but the dolt wouldn’t just show up at is workplace, Granger in tow, without even asking for an appointment. Would he? His stomach sank. Oh, Merlin, he would. The idiot absolutely would. 

And then the unsettling oddness of the last five minutes dawned on him; how did Mr Frombley even know who Potter and Granger were?

“Mr Frombley,” he said breathlessly, “how…?”

“Not now, Draco. Hermione Granger and Harry Potter are standing outside at the pass through! Do you actually know him?”

“I… well, yes sir, actually I do. We went through school together.”

“Oh, of course you did,” Frombley said, smacking his own forehead. “How silly of me. And you were on opposite sides at the beginning of the war, even if it didn’t stay that way.”

The office floor seemed to be spinning beneath Draco’s seat. He stared at the old man, feeling as lost and confused as he ever had in his life. His vision began to grey around the edges. 

“For heaven’s sakes, _breathe_ , Draco. It won’t do either of us any good at this point if you faint! Now, you need to talk to them and find out why they’re here. You haven’t done anything in violation of your probation, have you?”

Frombley knew Draco was on probation, even though they’d never discussed it in the entire time Draco had worked for him. Why would Draco discuss it with a Muggle, after all? But clearly, Frombley was something other than merely a Muggle, wasn’t he? Oh, Christ, Draco was suddenly afraid he might vomit. “Who are you?” he gasped.

“Doesn’t matter at the mo. Just understand I’m on your side. Do you need to make a break for it? Now, now,” Frombley hurried over to him, patting Draco briskly on the back, then pushing hard enough he was bent double, his head between his knees. “Breathe, man. Deep breaths.”

Draco did as he was told, gasping for air. Slowly, the edges of his vision cleared and he straightened in the chair, shrugging off Frombley’s hands, annoyance replacing shock and fear. He’d be damned if he was going to let Potter and Granger, of all people, reduce him to a gasping, landed trout. He pushed up to his feet, swaying for the barest moment. 

“Do you think it’s safe for you to go out there?” Frombley asked, pale blue eyes wide. 

“Potter is Headmaster at Hogwarts,” Draco answered, and Gods, how those words stung, even to just say them. “Granger is a Healer. Is her husband with them?”

Frombley shook his head. “I don’t think so. He’s a ginger, isn’t he?”

“The most ginger ginger who ever lived, yes. He’s the Auror.”

“Well, there’s no Auror with them, so you should be all right. Chin up, lad,” he said bracingly. “I’m right behind you, and I won’t let them take you anywhere.”

Draco turned back to him. “Thank you, Mr Frombley. I have no idea why you’re being so kind…”

He scoffed. “It’s because I happen to like you, silly young man. Now, let’s go. If you need to make a run for it, I’ll throw myself between you and them.”

That mental image nearly made Draco laugh aloud, but there was really nothing funny about this situation at all. He walked tentatively toward the office door. Just before he opened it, Frombley grabbed his arm, startling a squeak out of him. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s just – Meggie doesn’t know anything about this, and I’d rather like to keep it that way, if we can. Is that all right with you?”

“More than,” Draco agreed with feeling. 

“Excellent.” Frombley gestured expansively for Draco to open the door. He did so, then inhaled deeply through his nose and walked out into the hallway.

He could see Granger standing at the pass through even before he got to the door. She was wearing a heavy winter white coat with a knit collar, a pale pink jumper showing from beneath it at the neckline. Her hair looked sleeker than it ever had when they’d been younger, and she really was quite lovely. She was reading the back of a bottle of old age vitamins, her brow furrowed in interested concentration.

As if sensing his approach, she lifted her chin, her eyes widening as their gazes locked. 

“Draco,” she said, then turned slightly. “Harry – “

Draco’s heart slammed into his throat as the slender, sinewy man with a thick shock of black hair and broad shoulders standing behind her turned, his eyes going past her to Draco where he stood in the doorway. Draco read his lips as he said ‘Malfoy’ without sound.

“Potter,” Draco managed. But he couldn’t manage more than that. 

Potter had aged into the sharp cheekbones and square chin, and he had that sort of English pale complexion that made his black brows and thick lashes stand out in comparison. And his eyes, those green, green, bloody green eyes were like lasers staring out of his handsome face, his full pink lips slightly open as if in surprise, his jaw and upper lip shadowed in a days growth of beard that Draco had the almost overwhelming desire to cup his hands around, his thumb nails scraping against the stubble. 

The prat was beautiful, damn him. Damn, damn, damn him.

TBC


	11. Coffee Among Friends?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part: 

Harry had been looking at an assortment of canes on the end of one of the aisles, in colours and patterns that defied description. He remembered Vernon’s sister Marge using one, (he wouldn’t call her ‘Aunt Marge’ ever again, even if just in his own head. She’d been a vile old cunt and he refused to consider himself related to her) but hers had been simple and brown, probably made of some ugly natural wood that had been the cheapest she could find. Now they were available in jewel tones or patterned with paisley prints or stripes, and he couldn’t imagine anyone actually using one of them. Particularly that folding one with the black rubber do-dad on the bottom. How did that – he reached forward to touch it.

“Harry,” Hermione said with a strange, strangled sounding urgency. He turned to see the startled expression on her face, but his eyes were drawn to the man standing in what Petunia had always called ‘a Dutch door’, he had no idea why. But that was as far as his cognizant thought went, for the most glorious man he’d ever seen in his life was standing in the upper half of the door, wearing a white lab coat. He had wide square shoulders and Harry would guess long legs if he wasn’t standing on a lift behind that bloody door, which cut him off at the waist, the long coat hiding the rest. But Harry would bet his last month's salary, and that wasn’t inconsiderable, that he was built like a swimmer, with a lovely lean frame, broad shoulders and a trim waist. His elegant patrician features were augmented by arched brows several shades darker than his white blond hair, grey eyes the colour of the sky just before it snows framed by pale lashes, long as a child’s. And that was when it hit him, and he breathed out the name he never would have imagined being attached to a face and body grown into _that_. 

Hermione was giving him a hard look, one of those ‘pull your head from your arse right now, you bloody git’ looks he’d been on the receiving end of more than once in their acquaintance. “What?” he asked.

“Oh, honestly.” She rolled her dark eyes and walked up to the doorway, her hand extended. The old man who had first greeted them, and Harry would bet his own teeth he’d recognized them, was hovering protectively near Malfoy’s shoulder, and Hermione gave him a warm smile as she offered him her hand first. “Hello, my name is Hermione Granger-Weasley, and this is – “

“Harry Potter.” Harry stepped forward, offering his hand as well. The old man took it with what was unmistakably a bit of awe, and Harry forced himself not to stare at Malfoy as he pasted on a smile. 

“Roland Frombley,” the man said.

“Nice to meet you,” Hermione said, her smile much warmer than Harry imagined his was. “We’re old friends of Draco’s –”

Malfoy snorted softly, but never let it be said anyone got in the way when Hermione was on a mission.

“We just found out he worked here today,” she continued brightly. Harry noticed Malfoy was taking furtive looks at him, and he only knew that because of the furtive looks he was casting, himself. “I know it might be a bit early, but we were wondering…”

“It’s not that early,” Frombley said. “And Draco knows he can leave whenever he wishes.” From the quick frown Draco sent his employer, apparently he didn’t know that at all, but the man was still talking. “But only if he _wants_ to.”

The old man was apparently trying to send Draco some sort of message with his eyes, which were dodging madly back and forth, and his eyebrows, which were climbing up and down his forehead. Draco frowned for a moment, then closed his eyes as the message was received. “It’s all right,” Harry saw him say, his voice quiet enough Harry never would’ve heard him. 

“If you’re sure,” Frombley said, turning away. 

“I’ll just be a moment,” Draco said to them softly, his voice deeper than Harry remembered, the cut glass quality of it softened from the swotty drawl Harry remembered from their school days. He looked between them quickly, then gestured to the side. “I’ll just… need to fetch my coat and hat.”

“Of course,” Hermione piped brightly, grinning at him. When Draco turned away, she gave Harry another one of her looks, this one saying ‘don’t be an idiot’ so loudly she might as well have shouted it. 

“I’m not,” he argued. She rolled her eyes, and he didn’t even attempt to interpret what that meant.

When Draco emerged from the back room a few moments later, he was wearing a black hip length pea coat, and yes, his legs were longer, and a black knit cap pulled down over his ears and forehead. Just the barest bit of fringe brushed his eyebrows and ears, and even just that bit of pale blond looked soft. Harry wanted to touch it, and he jammed his hands into his jeans pockets to keep himself from doing anything so painfully stupid. Draco gestured in front of him. 

“After you.” 

Hermione started off down the main aisle, and Harry fell into line behind her, Draco bringing up the rear. Harry leaned forward and whispered in her ear. 

“Where are we going?” 

“There’s an Angel’s Market just over a block,” she answered sotto voce. “I thought we’d go for coffee.”

“Oh, good thought.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “It’s been known to happen.”

“Annoyingly often,” he supplemented, and she turned back forward with a flip of her hair. 

It was cold outside, and Harry’s breath ghosted in front of his face as they walked. They’d fallen into a single line, three abreast, with enough space between them that their elbows didn’t brush, but Harry was almost painfully aware of Malfoy on his right. Harry had grown taller in the years since they’d seen each other last, but Malfoy was broader, and Harry glanced repeatedly to the side, studying the cool, etched profile. He was beautiful, Harry thought, and he clearly wasn’t the only one who thought so; people turned as they passed, drawn by his cool blond elegance. Interestingly, Malfoy didn’t seem to notice. He walked with his eyes down, his face carefully blank.

“Where are we going, Gr…” Malfoy stopped, glancing at Hermione. “I’m sorry; you’re married, I believe. Is it Weasley, or Granger-Weasley?”

Astoundingly, there seemed to be absolutely no mocking in the question.

“I don’t suppose you could manage Hermione?” She asked hopefully. Malfoy blinked. 

“I… don’t know, to be honest,” he said, looking troubled. “When you think of someone in one way for so many years…”

“I know,” she said. Uneasy silence settled between the three of them as they walked.

“I’ll try,” he finally offered. “Allow me to apologize in advance if I backslide.”

Harry looked at him quizzically. Who was this? There wasn’t a bit of the old Malfoy about him, other than the faintly pointed nose and the high, sharp cheekbones. 

“I don’t suppose I’ll ever be anything other than Potter,” he said, trying to make a joke. Malfoy’s eyes cut to him, then away.

“Let’s not overextend ourselves.” 

Harry snorted out a soft chuckle before he thought it might be better not to.

“You never did say where we’re going,” Malfoy reminded them. 

“The Angel’s Market,” Hermione answered. “According to a rather large sign right at the entrance, they offer a proper cup of coffee, whatever that means.”

“Strong enough to walk on, I’d wager,” Harry quipped, and his heart lifted when the corner of Malfoy’s lips curled up.

“You’d be right,” Malfoy responded. “I get it often.”

“Oh,” Hermione said quickly, “if you’d like to get something else.”

“Relax, Hermione.” Harry bumped his shoulder against hers. “He said he gets it often. Do you think he would do that if he hated it?”

She gave him a quelling look, but he managed a wink for her. In a movement he’d seen his friend perform for the entirety of the time he’d known her, Hermione took a deep breath and visibly forced herself to relax, shoulders settling into a more unperturbed line.

The entrance to the market was crowded, traffic in and out thick and people carrying bags and parcels nudged into the three of them, pushing them closer together. Hermione gestured to the side to several small tables set just out of the traffic lanes. 

“Why don’t you grab a table and I’ll get the coffee?” she offered. 

Malfoy looked slightly alarmed, his grey eyes widening, and for some reason that amused Harry. “Sounds like a plan,” he said, catching Malfoy’s elbow and gesturing to a table near the coffee stand. Malfoy allowed himself to be steered in that direction, pulling out one of the small, rickety chairs and sitting primly, his hands clasped in front of him so tightly that his knuckles were white. In an effort to ease Malfoy’s obvious nerves, Harry pulled out another of the chairs and turned it around, straddling it and leaning on the back. He searched his mind anxiously for a subject that would be non-confrontational, finally thinking of Draco’s son.

“Scorpius is a good lad.”

Malfoy’s eyes lifted to his face, and for the first time Harry noticed the flecks of blue amidst the grey, and the darker pewter ring around the iris. “I like to think so.”

“He is,” Harry assured him. “Head Boy, excellent grades. I’m sure you’re justifiably proud of him.”

Malfoy looked down at his long, slender fingers, flexing them in their grip. “I am, yes.”

“You’re the primary custodial parent, aren’t you?”

A flash of annoyance creased Malfoy’s brow. “Find that impossible, do you, Headmaster?”

Harry recognized the sarcasm with a sinking in his chest. There was the tone he’d known so well. “No,” he said in irritation. “My sons are both hellions of the first order. Find that surprising?”

Malfoy’s lips twitched. “Not remotely.” He cleared his throat. “Although I understand your daughter is a lovely girl.”

Harry accepted the comment for what it was; an olive branch. He glanced over at the coffee stand to see Hermione watching them anxiously. He gave her a quick, reassuring wink. “Fortunately,” he turned back to Malfoy, “she takes after her mother. The boys are more like me.”

“The middle one certainly is,” Malfoy said. Harry brows shot up.

“You’ve met Al?”

“Scorpius brought him to my flat for dinner not long after the beginning of this term.” His eyes widened. “I hope I haven’t got him trouble.”

“No, not at all,” Harry assured him, although he was going to be having words with his middle child as soon as he got back to Hogwarts. He was of age, however, so Harry wasn’t sure what he could do about it.

“Potter,” Malfoy said suddenly, leaning forward. “Can’t you just tell me what this about? You have to know having you and Gr – Weasley show up at my place of business is… unsettling at best. Much as it pains me to have to justify myself, I assure you I haven’t violated the terms of the Ministry’s sentence. Nor have I tried to enter Hogwarts. I would never jeopardize Scorpius’s tenure there.”

His eyes had gone wide, and Harry reached out without thinking, touching his forearm. The arm beneath the thick wool jacket sleeve was rigid. “I know that, Malfoy.”

“Then, will you please just tell me?”

Harry looked over to where Hermione had now reached the cashier, willing the person behind the counter to hurry. 

“Potter.”

Harry felt something close tight around his wrist, and he looked down to see one of Malfoy’s hands gripping him, so hard it was almost painful. Harry leaned forward. “Malfoy, relax,” he murmured and closed his hand over the bony fingers. “It’s okay. We aren’t here about that. Well, we are, but not in the way you think.”

“Then, what?” Malfoy whispered harshly. “Just tell me.”

Harry looked over to the coffee stand. Hermione still wasn’t coming, now apparently chatting with the barista. He turned back to Malfoy and saw that he was going to have to tell him something, now.

“Fine.” Harry leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We are here about your sentence, but we think it’s incredibly unfair, and we’d like your permission to appeal it to the Wizengamot. We want to see if we can’t get it overturned.”

Malfoy looked as if Harry had slapped him.


	12. Coffee and Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: 

_“Then, what?” Malfoy whispered harshly. “Just tell me.”_

_Harry looked over to the coffee stand. Hermione still wasn’t coming, now apparently chatting with the barista. He turned back to Malfoy and saw that he was going to have to tell him something, now._

_“Fine.” Harry leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We are here about your sentence, but we think it was incredibly unfair, and we’d like your permission to appeal it to the Wizengamot. We want to see if we can’t get it overturned.”_

_Malfoy looked as if Harry had slapped him._

Draco felt as if Potter had slapped him. “Wait, what?” 

“Your sentence, at the end of the war.”

“I know _that_ , you idiot.”

Draco could’ve kicked himself. Not that Potter wasn’t an idiot; he was then, and apparently still was. But if the man was serious about he and Granger wanting to appeal his sentence, if he could maybe be a proper wizard again… Draco’s entire body ached with wanting it. If he could just keep his mouth shut and not insult him.

“I don’t understand,” he said instead, unable to help himself. 

Potter looked toward the coffee stand, as if staring at Granger could hurry her along. No, not Granger, he reminded himself. Granger-Weasley. She’d actually married the ginger haired git. Draco had been flabbergasted at the time. Not that he liked to admit it, but she was brilliant. In fact, he’d have been less surprised if she’d married Potter, but then he’d married the Weaslette, hadn’t he? Draco felt as if his head was spinning. 

Potter bit his plump lower lip, (and it was a lovely plump lip, pink and ripe) eyes shooting to Granger-Weasley’s slender back again. “Can we wait for Hermione?”

Draco sighed. “Can I stop you?”

Potter sniggered, then covered his mouth as if alarmed by the sound he’d made. “No, not really,” he said with a grudging smile. “It’s just that she’s so much more articulate than I am, and she can explain in five minutes what it would take me an hour to get out.”

Draco stared into the earnest green eyes. Lord, he always had been obnoxiously earnest, hadn’t he? It had nauseated Draco when they’d been in school. But then, Draco had been one of the few who’d been able to push Potter out of that sober, intense sincerity. He had the scars to prove it. He suddenly became aware Potter was basically holding his hand, and he pulled it free. His hand throbbed with a strange almost electrical current that faded slowly, and he realized it was the first time Potter had ever touched him. When Potter flexed his fingers Draco wondered if he felt it to.

“So, uhm,” Potter fidgeted, something else Draco remembered, “have you come to this market before?”

“A time or two,” Draco said faintly, staring at Granger’s back (fuck it, he just couldn’t think of her as Weasley), willing her to hurry. He and Potter sharing chit chat was just too surreal.

“I’ve brought my kids to the ice rink over there a time or two.” Potter pointed. “You know, the big one against the Tower wall?”

Draco nodded. “Scorpius has brought me, actually. He’s a much better skater than I am.”

Potter gave him a faint smile. “I find that surprising. You always seemed so, I don’t know, graceful.” 

Draco knew he must look startled by the compliment, such as it was. He was caught enough off guard that it took him a moment to realize Granger was headed their way.

Finally, _finally_ she arrived at the table with a cardboard carrying tray with three large cups of coffee nestled into its slots. 

“Peppermint mocha for you,” she said with forced cheer, placing the steaming cup in front of Potter, “caramel macchiato for me,” she placed another cup on the table, then gave Draco an apologetic look, “and I’m sorry, Draco. I’ve no idea how you take yours. But the woman in the stand assures me this is a lovely blend.” She set it in front of him, then added a few packets of sugar and artificial sweeteners and those odd little plastic tubs of false cream. He slipped off the lid of his coffee, irritated beyond bearing that his hand was trembling. He tore open a packet of sugar, shimmering grains falling onto the top of the black metal table and scattering. He chose not to look at either of them and tore open another packet, doing a much better job of getting it into the cup.

She sat primly on the edge of one of the dainty chairs. “So,” she looked between him and Potter, “how far have we got?”

“Nowhere,” Potter admitted. “I asked Malfoy to wait until you joined us.”

“He said you were more articulate than he is,” Draco said, trying not to sound snotty. He was afraid he failed. “Colour me surprised at the improvement in his vocabulary.” If he didn’t know it was physically impossible at his age, Draco would have kicked himself in the arse for being unable to just _Shut. Up._

Instead of looking annoyed, which Draco honestly wouldn’t have been surprised by, she smiled wryly. “Well, he did have to finish several NEWT’s with decent marks in order to teach.”

“Killing a Dark Lord wasn’t enough for a proper CV?” Draco found that surprising. As he recalled, the wizarding world had been ready to canonize him.

Potter rubbed his forehead, as if he felt awkward. “They didn’t much care about that in America,” he admitted. “I did my seventh year while I was apprenticing in DADA.”

Draco was tempted to make another dry, snarky comment but held back; he hadn’t known much about ‘the ghastly trio’s’ (as Pansy called them), post war experiences. At least until Scorpius got his Hogwarts letter, and Potter’s name appeared amongst a list of instructors. Old McGonagall was still Headmistress Scorpius’s first year, and Draco was so relieved his son wasn’t being made to pay for having the last name of Malfoy that he’d read the letter four times before he’d even noticed it. Pansy, who was still a font of gossipy information, knew Potter’s ginger best mate was an Auror and his wife a Healer, but even she hadn’t known the chosen one had chosen to scarper off to the colonies. At least, not until he’d come back six years after the war, just in time to marry Ginevra and start his teaching career while Mrs Potter popped out babies. By then, Draco had been mired in the middle of his own miserable marriage and locked out of the wizarding world. At least until he’d married Astoria.

Draco had been home from Switzerland with his degree and working for Frombley for two years when Nederley Greengrass had approached his mother. The Greengrass’s had been the only pure blood family who would even entertain a marriage with a Malfoy after the war. Greengrass senior had managed to avoid entanglement with Voldemort, but he’d pissed away what had at one time been a tidy fortune. Draco had more money than Greengrass did due to his combined inheritances, and that had apparently been enough for him to be willing to allow his youngest to take on the disgraced offspring of Lucius Malfoy. Astoria, poor thing, had always had a crush on Draco, and Draco just wanted to do something, anything, to please his mother. So they’d married and had Scorpius before Astoria figured out those little whispers about her husband preferring to ride a thick cock than use his on her weren’t just vicious gossip. She also despised living as a Muggle, and refused. Being around magic when he was unable to perform any himself had been the death knell of a painfully bad marriage. The divorce had not been pretty; Draco thought it nothing short of a miracle that his attorney managed to get him primary custody. Of course, it helped that Astoria had taken to hitting the potions pretty heavily and Narcissa was in residence to provide child care while Draco finished his education. He’d honestly been too busy with school and too tired to much care what Potter and his cronies were up to. His life-long fascination with all things Potter seemed to have just -- disappeared. 

“I gather relocating was why you couldn’t be bothered to testify at any of the trials.” Draco hated that he sounded so bitter, but it had been his default mood for a long time, damn it. Between him and his mother, they’d saved Potter’s skin at least twice. Of course, if one started keeping count, Draco knew he was at a disadvantage. Flying him out of a room engulfed in fiendfyre had been heroic enough to clear the slate, even before Potter had off’d Voldemort. 

Potter and Granger exchanged a long look, and Draco could see a silent conversation taking place between them that he wasn’t privy to. 

“I did leave,” Potter admitted. And he stopped, looking shamefaced. 

“Draco, you have to realize,” Granger finally said, apparently deciding Potter actually did need her help. “Harry was – “ 

“A fucking mess.” Potter looked away, his face drawn.

“I was going to say you were traumatized,” Granger corrected gently before turning back to Draco. “But he isn’t wrong. Please understand; he spoke at every memorial, every funeral, for months.”

“I know that doesn’t excuse just… leaving.” Potter’s eyes looked lost, and the sad expression caught and held Draco’s attention, even as he wished it wouldn’t. “I should have stayed, should have testified. You saved our lives that night at the Manor, when the Snatchers brought us in. You knew who I was.” He was no longer staring aimlessly; his eyes turned back to Draco’s, so vivid they might have been lasers pinned to him. “You could have told her.”

Draco shook his head, the cold and the coffee and even Granger fading. “No, I couldn’t. She’d have called him, and we’d have all ended up dead. You were our only – hope.”

“How could you know I’d be able to finish it?”

“You were the only one who could. And courage was never your problem.”

Their eyes held, locked together. “Your mother…”

Draco stared down at his hands. “I wish…” He swallowed deeply. “I do wish you’d got back in time for her.”

“So do I. She risked everything. And I –" Potter ran his hand through his hair, leaving curls standing on end. Draco had the completely irrational desire to fix it. “Christ, Draco. I’m so fucking sorry.”

The words brought on a rush of stinging pain in Draco’s eyes, but crying was out of the question. He coughed, trying to clear his throat. “You should know -- she told me; she was sick before the war ended. There might have been less – tension, but to be fair, it probably wouldn’t have given her any more time. Scorpius did more for her than anything else probably could have.”

Potter nodded, but he didn’t look particularly comforted.

“Draco.” There was something in Granger’s voice, something tenacious, that made him turn back to her. “In order to keep my parents safe, I had to obliviate them. I sent them to Australia, but the only way to truly protect them was to wipe their memories clean of… well, me. They couldn’t remember they had a daughter named Hermione, or that their name was Granger. Ron and I went to find them, but that left Harry here. Alone.”

“Alone?” Draco couldn’t help the scoff. “The savior of wizarding kind? He had to be surrounded by Weasley’s, at the very least.”

“They were grieving their own loss.” She didn’t scold, but he felt like she should. He’d forgot all about the lost twin. 

“I’m sorry; that was tactless.”

“There was pain enough to go around, on both sides.” He nodded, wondering why she was being so kind. For fuck’s sakes, his crazy Aunt Bellatrix had carved on her arm; of everyone he knew, she had the most cause to hate his family. Why didn’t she? Why didn’t Potter? Suddenly, something he’d said rushed back to the forefront of Draco’s mind.

“Earlier, Potter said something about you thinking my sentence was unfair.”

She gave Potter a quick look. “So you did talk a bit then?”

“Only that,” Potter said. “Not… the other.”

“The other what?”

Granger took a delicate sip of her coffee, placing the cup carefully back on the table. She squared her shoulders. “We do think your sentence was very unfair, especially considering mitigating factors.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “What mitigating factors? I’d really love it if the two of you would stop talking in circles.”

They exchanged another of those speaking looks, and Granger seemed to sit back so Potter could take the lead. “A lot of what you did was because you were trying to protect your parents,” Potter said, firmness flowing back into his voice. “And there was no one to testify to the coercion, or the fact you probably saved our lives that night, because we were all gone when your trial happened.”

Draco rubbed his hand over his face. “It was a long time ago, Potter. Why try to do something about it now?”

Potter’s gaze was unblinking. “Because I’d like to try to convince you to come teach potions at Hogwarts, and you can’t do that as long as your sentence stands the way it is.” 

Draco gave him an incredulous look. “You’re the one who’s been talking to my son.”

Harry nodded. They were both staring at him, and Draco looked between them.

“There’s something else,” Draco sensed, not a question.

“There is,” Granger answered. “We’ve just told you we think your sentence was unfair, and we’d like to see it overturned. Knowing the two of us, doesn’t it seem the least bit odd that we’ve never done anything about it in the nearly twenty years we’ve been back since the war?”

“Given it’s the two of you,” Draco said dryly, “not necessarily.”

She gave him a sardonic look. “Very cute. But honestly, Draco. Have you ever known us to just ignore an injustice?”

He grimaced. “I’m an injustice, now? Christ.” He rubbed his jaw. “But okay, yes, it does seem odd. What are you trying to tell me?”

A slightly alarming glint entered her eyes, not unlike the one she’d had right before she punched him in the nose during fourth year. 

“You aren’t going to hit me, are you?”

Potter snorted and Granger gave him a brief smile. 

“No,” she said. “But I make no such promises for the person or persons who screwed with our heads.”

Draco frowned. “Someone… did what?”

“We don’t know what magic was used,” Potter said. “We only know some was.”

Draco stared at them in silent dismay.


	13. Angels We Have Seen On High

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: 

_“You aren’t going to hit me, are you?”_

_Potter snorted and Granger gave him a brief smile._

_“No,” she said. “But I make no such promises for the person or persons who screwed with our heads.”_

_Draco frowned. “Someone… did what?”_

_“We don’t know what magic was used,” Potter said. “We only know some was.”_

_Draco stared at them in silent dismay._

“You’re telling me someone fucked with Harry Potter’s head?”

Harry paused, then nodded. “Apparently. Mine, and Hermione’s. We don’t know about anyone else.”

“Like an _Obliviate_?”

“Something like it,” Hermione offered. “Perhaps partnered with a sophisticated _Notice Me Not_ spell targeted to specific people. I intend to do some research, but I encountered nothing like this in my spell reversals or mind-altering study divisions. If it’s what we think, this is very unusual magic.”

“How do you know anything was done at all?” Malfoy asked, his voice small. Hermione arched a brow at Harry and he shrugged. In for a penny, in for a pound, he supposed.

“Because up until I left for America, I was always… fairly interested in your activities,” he said, and Hermione snorted.

“He was obsessed, more like,” she said in amusement. Harry felt his face heat. “Particularly sixth year. But even while we were… well, gone from Hogwarts what would have been our seventh year, he wondered where you were, and what you were doing.” She had no idea how much of what was going on with Draco Harry had witnessed through Voldemorts twisted head; she didn’t need to. “Then he gets offered the teaching position at Ilvermorny, and leaves without even giving a passing thought to testifying at the trials for you or your mother, knowing he owed her a life debt. Then he doesn’t think about you again until a few days ago.”

“Not exactly,” Harry argued. “I thought of you when Scorpius started at Hogwarts. The point is, I never wondered why you weren’t at Nine and Three Quarters, or parents day, or any of it until Rosmerta floated the idea of you teaching at Hogwarts. I knew there was a reason you couldn’t, but I couldn’t remember the specifics. And then we realized, neither could Hermione.”

“Even with printed information about the trials in my hand, I couldn’t seem to make myself concentrate on anything with your name in it.”

Malfoy sat back in the small chair, looking stunned. “That’s…vaguely frightening,” he murmured.

“It’s patentedly illegal,” Hermione said. “If it’s what I think, basically it can be considered a modified _Imperious_.”

“Wait,” Draco said, his eyes narrowed. “Potter can throw off an Imperious.”

Harry stared at him, startled.

“How do you know that?” Hermione asked.

Harry saw colour flood Malfoy’s pale cheekbones, and he looked away, his throat working. “We were in the same DADA class fourth year. He was the only one who could, of all of us. At fourteen.”

Hermione’s dark eyes began to gleam slightly. “That’s right. Interesting you’d remember that.”

“It was … impressive.” Malfoy crossed his arms defensively, which made Harry want to smile.

“It was.” Hermione looked at Harry, amusement on her face. She wasn’t particularly subtle, and he wanted to kick her under the table. He also felt an unusual warmth in his chest. The idea that Malfoy had paid close enough attention that he remembered that, when they’d been fourth years, made Harry feel less ridiculous about his own obsession.

“Apparently,” Hermione went on, “he can throw it off if he knows he’s been hit with it, but whoever did this was very stealthy. Plus it wasn’t just an Imperious, I don’t think; it was a combination of spells. We have no idea what it is, when it was cast, or where.”

Harry saw fear flash through Malfoy’s expressive eyes.

“What is it, Malfoy?” Harry asked. Malfoy startled, then turned to Harry.

“I have – an aversion to that spell,” he answered vaguely.

Of course he did, Harry realized. Malfoy’s own father had used it on him for half of the war, and Voldemort used all of the unforgivables with impunity. Harry wondered if Malfoy had as many nightmares about what he’d been forced to do as Harry did from being forced to watch it through Voldemort’s eyes?

“You should know,” Malfoy paused for a moment to clear his throat, “there were Death Eaters working on several different variations of the Imperious.”

“Who?” Hermione asked, her brow furrowed. “And why?”

“The why is actually easier to answer than the who,” Malfoy replied. “Voldemort was very proud of his efforts to take over the thoughts of everyone in the wizarding world, starting with Pius Thicknesse and anyone else he put inside the Ministry. He knew there would always be people like the Order of the Phoenix if freedom of thought was allowed, but if there was an undetectable spell that could make them think whatever he wanted, pay attention to only the things or people that he wanted, he could successfully control everything, at even the highest levels of government. In the same way, he could make people ignore who or what he wanted ignored. That way, if his war was unsuccessful he could throw a coup; his hand-picked candidates could run for office and win without anyone being the wiser.”

Hermione shuddered, as if she was cold. “That’s terrifying.”

Harry agreed with her. “Why do you say that the why is easier to answer than the who?”

Malfoy turned to look at him. “Because the who was a very high-level operation; only Voldemort knew who was working on it. Even Bellatrix had no idea.” (Harry noticed he didn’t call her Aunt, but then, if he’d been related to her he wouldn’t have wanted to, either. He didn’t even want to claim Petunia). “I do know there were some Unspeakables involved. And Umbridge.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Delores Umbridge?”

“Didn’t you ever wonder how she managed to stay at the top of the Ministry, no matter which side was in charge?”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a look. “And you know this, how?” Harry asked.

“I was there, Potter,” Malfoy answered. He sounded weary. “The plans were made in my house. And I knew just which secret passageway to take to eavesdrop. When he wasn’t using me as a tool to punish my father, I was as good as invisible. He didn’t care about me. I could slip around without notice.” He looked to Hermione. “In the interests of full disclosure, I’m also very good with a _Notice Me Not_. My plan was to get enough information about where he was going and when he’d be gone over hols to try to escape with my mother. Unfortunately,” he sighed and shook his head, “she wouldn’t leave Father. And Father always believed he was just one brilliant plan from finding himself back in favour. It never happened, of course.”

Silence settled over them, thick as the rapidly cooling, foggy evening air.

“So,” Hermione said slowly, “do we suppose this alteration in our thoughts is some lingering spell variation Voldemort’s followers were working on?”

Harry rubbed his fingers over his jaw, grimacing when he felt the stiff stubble. It didn’t matter how often he shaved, and he’d shaved both that morning and right before he and Hermione left for London. (He wasn’t going to examine why he’d felt the need to shave twice that day). He sighed. “Do we assume the snake faced bastard is still fucking with our lives, all these years later?”

Hermione crossed her arms. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I intend to find out if someone was messing about in my head. I know the damage it caused for my parents, and not to put too fine a point on it, but I’m quite good with memory charms.”

She was, too, Harry thought.

“And with that edifying thought, I need to head home. I’ve the early shift tomorrow.” She stood, looping her large bag over her shoulder. She looked at Malfoy. “Can I assume you’re all right with us looking into your sentence?”

He nodded, standing slowly as well. Harry did the same, grimacing a bit when his knees complained.

“Yes,” Malfoy answered her. “I’d appreciate it. And anything I can do to help, please, contact me.”

“Oh, rest assured we will.” She gave him a slight smile. “It is actually nice to see you again – Draco.” She offered her hand.

He took it with a faint look of amusement. “It’s good to see you too – Hermione.” He turned to Harry.

Clearly, he was leaving this one up to Harry to decide. “I actually thought I’d walk with you back to the Pharmacy,” he said instead of offering his hand.

“Oh, Frombley’s is closed now. I usually ride my bike, but… I imagine I’ll be taking the tube home. It’s a bit far to walk this time of night.”

“Right. Well.” Harry shrugged awkwardly. “If you’ve no objection, I’ll walk with you to the tube.”

“Afraid I can’t take care of myself, Potter? I assure you, I’ve lived in London a very long time, and know what neighbourhoods to avoid. And the tube won’t take you back to Scotland.” He raised one arched brow.

“Well, while you two gentlemen sort this out, I’m going to go,” Hermione said, looking far too amused for Harry’s peace of mind; he knew he was going to be hearing about this the next time he saw her. She patted Draco once on the arm. “I have my own in-house connection to the Ministry, so we should at least be able to access the archives of that time within the next few days. I’ll be in touch.” She smirked at Harry again. “’Night, Harry.”

“Good night, Hermione.” He watched her walk around the corner of the much more subdued Christmas market, and heard a faint pop of _Apparition_ , nearly buried under Christmas music he’d just noticed.

They stood awkwardly for several seconds, then Malfoy sighed. “Fine. If you insist on accompanying me, can we go? I’m freezing my bollocks off.”

“Of course.”

Malfoy turned and started off down the street and Harry hurried behind him, catching up and falling into step beside him.

They walked several blocks, Malfoy apparently perfectly happy to maintain his silence and Harry unable to think of a single thing to say that wouldn’t sound stupid. Hermione’s comment that he was obsessed, more like. Particularly sixth year… seemed to hang between them. He wasn’t sure what to say after that; it had revealed far too much for his peace of mind, and he really just hoped Malfoy would completely forget about it. He was staring down at the asphalt, now glimmering with dampness from the fog, when brilliant lights reflected in the water caused him to look up. He stopped, staring up at what appeared to be an enormous angel made entirely of Christmas lights.

“That’s… stunning,” he said softly. Malfoy had stopped beside him, and they looked down the length of the long street, seeing angel after angel into the distance.

“It’s Regents Street,” Draco said. “It’s the two hundred anniversary this year, and they went all out. I can remember Mother bringing me here to shop when I was small.” He smiled faintly. “I thought they were Veela’s.”

“I can see that,” Harry murmured, still studying the glorious figures, wide white wings spread, blue sparkling trains looping from their hips.

A car horn honked at them, and Draco gave them a clearly understood hand gesture when the driver snarled something at them and whizzed by. Draco grabbed Harry’s sleeve and pulled him across onto the sidewalk, taking a left and walking away. Harry glanced behind him at Regent’s Street, wanting to linger underneath the angel’s wide spread wings.

“Well, this is me,” Draco said, stopping abruptly. Harry nearly ran into him, then glanced up at the awning and saw the Underground’s distinctive red circle hanging above an entrance to descending stairs.

“I’m certain Hermione will find something,” Harry said. “She’s tenacious when she gets her teeth into a project. And I meant what I said. I’d like for you to teach potions, if you’re interested.”

“Let’s not get a head of ourselves,” Malfoy said. “I’d need to be sure Scorpius thought it was a good idea, and I can’t just leave Mr Frombley hanging. But…” He sighed, looking up at the night sky. “I won’t lie. I’ve – missed Hogwarts, very much.”

“Well, then we’ll leave it there. At the very least, we can take a crack at having the ban to Hogwarts lifted.”

Malfoy nodded, then shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, answering the question about an awkward attempt by Harry to shake his hand. Harry nodded, feeling like a giant prat. “All right, then. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon. Malfoy.”

Draco’s lips twitched into an almost, not quite there smile. “Potter.”

Harry turned to walk away.

“Potter.”

Harry stopped, turning.

“We might want to have Gr -- Hermione consider the possibility that someone… mucked about in my head a bit, as well.”

Harry frowned. “Meaning?”

Draco looked off to the side, then back into Harry’s eyes with a sigh. “I haven’t thought about you in years, either, and you took up a fair amount of space in my head, once upon a time, too. Although…” He exhaled explosively. When he spoke again, his voice was muted, but clear, “you do turn up in my dreams.”  
With that, he turned and jogged out of view down the stairs, and Harry stared at the spot where he disappeared for a long time.


	14. Surprising Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: 

Draco walked through the front doors of Frombley’s the morning after his meeting with Potter and Granger, still wondering when, exactly, he’d lost his fucking mind. 

“Potter.” He could still hear his own voice, cutting through the cold air at the tube entrance the night before. Potter had stopped and turned back, his stupid beautiful eyes wide behind the lenses of his stupid spectacles. “We might want to have Gr -- Hermione consider the possibility that someone mucked about in my head a bit, as well.”

“Meaning?” Potter had said, his face, his stupid beautiful face, creased in concern.

“I haven’t thought about you in years, either,” Draco recalled himself saying, “and you took up a fair amount of space in my head, once upon a time, too. Although…you do turn up in my dreams.”

He’d run for it then, down the stairs and onto a train, and had stood the five miles home to Sloane Court slowly banging his head against a grubby pole. 

What. The actual. Fuck.

Out of everything he could have said to Potter, ‘you turn up in my dreams’ had been what came out of his mouth before his brain had been even remotely engaged. God, what? Just…what?

When Granger and Potter first turned up in Frombley’s, Draco had felt as if puking on his own shoes was a very real possibility. The walk to Angel’s Market had been agonizing, feeling Potter’s eyes flitting to him and away, only knowing because _his_ had been flitting to Potter and then away. Then what they’d told him…

Why the bloody hell hadn’t he fixated on that? They wanted to appeal his sentence. Potter and Granger, possibly the two best known and widely respected people in the Wizarding world, wanted to go before the Wizengamot and appeal his sentence. Perhaps it was the enormity of it that made staring at Potter so much simpler. But once he’d got home, changed into pyjama’s and made a pot of tea, and was curled on his sofa with his cup in his hands, he’d been unable to think of anything else. They were going to speak for him, Granger the Healer and Potter the giant killer, were going to speak for him. He couldn’t allow himself to hope, because hope was painful, but the possibilities spread out before him like a banquet of wonders; to have his wand be more than a paper weight, to show his son he truly was a talented wizard, to walk the halls of Hogwarts. Oh, Gods; to walk the halls of Hogwarts. 

His father had taken him to Hogwarts for the first time when he’d been barely three years old. They’d gone to the Slytherin vs. Gryffindor Quidditch match, and even though Slytherin had lost in egregious style, (600 to 140) he still remembered the exhilaration of watching the Seeker in red dive and catch the snitch as the wind had whipped Draco’s hair around his face and Severus had bounced him on his knee, after lecturing him that pissing on his future head of house was very bad form indeed. Draco had been offended; he was three, not a _baby_. Merlin, he could still hear Severus’ voice if he concentrated, and the idea of being able to speak to his portrait, even though it was only magicked paint and canvas, brought longing so fierce it was almost physical. Severus only had portraits at Hogwarts…to go back to Hogwarts – he could die happy if that happened.

He’d never forget the ride across the black lake his first night, after they’d left the train in the Hogsmeade station. Vince had nearly scuttled them by jumping into the little boat, and Greg had forced it to list to one side with his weight. And even then, staring up at the castle on the hill had brought such a thrill. He’d felt as if he’d come home for the first time, and all of his father’s admonitions about making sure he became friends with the famous Harry Potter, that it was of the **utmost importance** that he do so, faded into the background in his pure, childish excitement. Of course, Potter had rejected him, and his father’s disappointment, even on paper, had made him dread going home for Christmas that year. But Hogwarts had never disappointed or hurt him. 

It was nearly midnight before he remembered that Mr Frombley recognized Granger and Potter, and he’d laid awake for another hour mulling that over in his head before he’d taken a half dose of sleeping potion so that he didn’t sleep through his alarm. He hadn’t, but now that he was here in the store he couldn’t think how to even approach the subject. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said in his head, ‘but exactly how the fuck do you even know who Harry Potter is?' He doubted that would go over terribly well. Draco took a deep breath and blew it out and walked up the center aisle to the back of the store; no point in delaying the inevitable.

He was hanging his coat on his hook and slipping into his lab coat when he heard someone come up to the door behind him. He turned, and Mr Frombley stood there, his hands twisted together in front of him, his wispy hair on end and his eyes looking as if he hadn’t slept much more than Draco had.

“I suppose you’ve some questions for me,” he said, his fuzzy brows arching. 

“Well, a few, sir, if you don’t mind answering.”

“Not a bit. Come on into the office and we’ll have tea.”

Of course Megan made the tea, which took forever, and it also required re-visiting with the horrible ginger biscuits. By the time she left the office even Mr Frombley, who’s patience was legendary, had reached the end of his tether. 

“Megan, darling, Draco and I have business to discuss. Please, go decorate something.”

Hurt had reflected in her dark eyes and Frombley sighed as the door closed behind her. “I’ll take her to the pub for lunch,” he murmured. He looked at Draco, hands steepled on the blotter in front of him. “Alright, young man, ask away.”

Draco set his tea on the edge of the desk. “How do you know who Harry Potter and Hermione Granger are?”

Frombley smiled faintly. “Right to it, then. I admire that about you; your staightforwardness. But how to answer the very straightforward question – hmm.” He touched the tips of his index fingers together in an odd, quick rhythm. “I don’t know them. Not personally, at any rate.” He sighed. “Alright Mr Malfoy, I am about to share something with you that even Megan doesn’t know. Her mother does, because she, after all, is my wife, but Meggie is a bit of a gossip and, well, her letting this about simply wouldn’t do at all…”

“Sir?” Draco interrupted gently.

“Ah, yes, I digress. You see, Draco, I have a brother. A twin, actually.” His eyes took on a faraway, sad look. “His name was Reginald, and until we were ten we were joined at the hip. Ronnie and Reggie, our mum called us, the two Musketeers. We thought that was so very amusing. Then, during the summer we turned eleven, our birthday was in August you see, Reggie got this very odd letter from a place called Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and everything changed.” He paused to straighten the papers on his desk and Draco watched him, saw him blink quickly as if banishing tears and realized he was. “Apparently my grandfather was a very powerful wizard, the whole family had been – until my Mum. Grandfather was so ashamed of her that he sent her to Muggle boarding school and she never went home again. Mum was thrilled for Reggie when his letter came; of course she was, but it was painful, you see, so once he was gone to Hogwarts, well… I didn’t seem him again until I was eighteen and at Uni. We wrote, twice a week, but Mum never asked after him, never wanted to know how he was. But once I was at Uni in Edinburgh, I could do pretty much as I pleased, and so I had Reg move in with me.” He smiled. “That was a glorious time. He showed me the magic he could do, and I was so amazed. The laws of physics mean nothing when magic is added, do they?”

“Not particularly, no,” Draco agreed. 

“Anyway, Reggie told me everything about Hogwarts, and the international laws of secrecy, and swore me to it. Of course, I agreed. I had my brother back; I’d have promised him anything. We lived together until I met my Gladys and he met his wife Maryann, but we stayed close. He’d come to visit me once a week, and he’d bring a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ with him, and he’d keep me appraised of what was going on in his world. And through all of it, our Mum…” He shook his head. “She just never could seem to get over the fact her son had been gifted with what she herself had so desperately wanted. She never seemed to take into consideration the same thing had happened to me.”

Draco studied the man’s sad face and felt desperately sorry for him. “I’m sorry, sir,” her murmured.

“Ah, well,” he waved his hands as if brushing the words away, “not your fault, was it?”

“Still.”

“That’s very kind. At any rate, you asked about your friends Potter and Granger. Reg managed to stay out of the first wizarding war, but he got very caught up in the second. He knew it was going to be bad, so he sent Maryann and their twin girls to her family in France.” He pursed his lips, staring at his blotter. “I’m not proud of this, Draco, but he got rather caught up in the wrong side of things. He was never in the upper echelon, not like your father, but he supported the Dark Lord’s reasoning about Muggles and pure bloods. I never realized how much our mother’s attitude affected him, but it was like he was fighting against her, supporting what our grandfather had done by cutting her off. It wasn’t until things were almost over he realized what a mistake he’d made, how utterly mad Voldemort was.” Frombley lifted his head, his red-rimmed eyes on Draco’s face. “He stayed with my family once he’d sent his away…”

Draco felt his heart sink. “Wasn’t that dangerous for all of you, sir?”

“I suppose it might have been, if anyone had known about us, or if Reg had been any more important. But the _Daily Prophet_ came to our address, even after Reg no longer did. That’s how I know your friends Miss Granger and Harry Potter. They’re both rather remarkable, aren’t they?”

Even with everything, it sort of galled Draco to admit it. “They are,” he said grudgingly. “I hated them with a passion when we were younger, but I can’t deny what I’ve seen with my own eyes. Potter has saved my life more than once.”

“Well, good.” Frombley said decisively. “It’s a life worth saving.”

Draco’s face heated. “So… you’ve known about my father from the beginning.”

Frombley nodded. “I have,” he admitted. “I recognized your name, and face. But you were hired completely due to your own merits, Draco. You’re a very bright young man who I believe was given a very hard road. We both have relatives who made disastrous mistakes. Reg was a man, but you were a child, dragged into something horrible by a father who made a terrible decision. That however, does not reflect on you. It’s not everyone who would have been able to pick themselves up and gone on to make something of themselves. Your education was exemplary, your marks top notch. I would not have hired you if I felt you didn’t deserve the job.”

Draco’s breath caught in his chest. “Thank you, Mr Frombley. You’ve no idea what that means.”

Frombley smiled at him a bit sadly. “Oh, I believe I do.” He cleared his throat. “All right, back to the scripts with you. I’ve a phone call to make.”

Knowing he’d been dismissed, Draco stood, taking his tea with him. He paused at the door. “Sir? What happened to your brother?”

Frombley shrugged awkwardly. “I’ve no idea. We assumed he was lost at the Battle of Hogwarts, because we never heard from him again after that. I hope, in the end, he made the right decision about which side to fight on.”

Draco doubted it. Not many people decided to change sides against Voldemort and lived, but he couldn’t see any reason to say that. “I hope so too, sir.”

“Thank you. It’s kind of you to say so.” Frombley smiled faintly. “I’ve noticed that about you, Draco. You’re kinder than you think.”

As Draco closed the door behind himself, he hoped Mr Frombley was right.

TBC


	15. When you touch me like that...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: 

The bell above the door rang as Harry pushed into Frombley’s. The door handle caught for a moment on the heavy rucksack he wore, and Harry paused just long enough to free it before walking up the aisle toward the back of the store. It seemed to him there were more garlands and glittery decorations up than there’d been just two days before, and he grimaced. Thank God the elves restrained some of their more exuberant impulses; his quarters were more festive than he might wish, but they had never looked like every decoration in London had exploded in the rooms.

He’d sent Phaedra to Malfoy that morning, just as soon as he’d heard from Hermione, asking if he could get away for an hour or two in the middle of the day. Harry had begun to despair of getting an answer when something white dashed by outside his office window and caught his eye, and he’d realized a bedraggled Phaedra had returned. He opened the window to let her in, and she paused on the sill to shake snow from her feathers. She held her leg out imperiously, then went straight to her perch and began to groom herself as Harry read Malfoy’s reply.

 _Potter,_ Malfoy had written, _I don’t imagine getting away around noon will be a problem; I do take a lunch break. And for future reference, please stop sending an owl to my flat. Not only does it probably look weird to my MUGGLE neighbors that there’s an owl pecking on my window, but today this bitch bit me. Clearly, her manners are abominable. D. Malfoy_

“You bit him? Bad bird!” Harry told her. She turned her back and flipped her tail feathers at him, and he had to laugh. “You are a bitch.” She didn’t seem bothered at all.

Now he walked to the Frombley’s Dutch door, leaning forward slightly and looking around the edge of the frame.

“Draco!” 

The young girl Harry had noticed the last time he’d been in the store leaned over his shoulder and shouted into the rear of the work area. Harry jumped, grimacing.

“The handsome friend of yours who was here for you before is back!”

Heat filled Harry’s cheeks and he winced. “Uhm, thank you.”

She gave him a wide, dimpled grin. “You’re welcome.”

Malfoy stepped out of what Harry thought might be an office, holding his pea coat draped over his arm, still wearing the white lab coat. The fact his cheeks were pink made Harry feel a bit better about his own blush. 

“Hello,” he said to Harry, looking into his eyes than away quickly.

“Hi,” Harry replied. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be. One moment, please.” He turned back to the office. “I shouldn’t be too long,” he said to what Harry assumed was Mr Frombley. 

“Don’t worry about it. We’re all caught up. Take the rest of the day.”

Draco looked startled. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Of course.”

Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Malfoy speak so deferentially to anyone aside from his father and maybe Snape, and Harry watched with interest. That it was his Muggle boss only made it more compelling.

Malfoy came out through the door, giving Harry a slightly nervous smile as he slipped into his coat.

“You okay for this?” Harry asked.

“Hopefully,” Malfoy responded, slipping the black buttons on his jacket through the button holes. Harry gestured for him to go ahead, then followed Malfoy’s tall, stiff figure to the front door. Once they were standing on the street, he gave Harry an ironic look.

“I’m still not sure why I should wear this lab coat,” Malfoy said, grimacing, gesturing to the white collar that just showed above his coat collar.

“It looks professional,” Harry replied, shrugging. “Apparently this afternoon is all about appearances.”

“Well, this jacket can be had on Amazon by anyone with twenty six pounds,” Malfoy said sardonically. 

“But Wizards don’t know that,” Harry replied. “And not with your name on it. The Phd after your name on the front looks impressive, too.”

Malfoy sighed, then gave Harry a once over. “If this afternoon is all about appearances, why are you wearing trainers?”

“Oh, I have my own costume to slip into, I promise you.”

Malfoy grimaced. “I’m doing all of this under protest,” he said, his voice as cold as the wind that whipped down the street and caught in his pale hair. 

“I know,” Harry said. “But Hermione thinks it’s the only way.”

Malfoy huffed but walked with Harry as they headed down the rain swept street. They crossed at the nearest light, then slipped into an alley between two old brick buildings. The further back they went the more it smelled like garbage and other things Harry didn’t want to name, so when he felt they’d gone far enough he caught Malfoy’s bicep, stopping him. The muscle under the wool was larger and firmer than Harry had expected. “Hold on,” he said, waiting while Malfoy turned his hand and clutched Harry’s wrist, and Harry _Apparated_. He heard Malfoy gasp, and when they landed in the loading dock behind the Ministry he stumbled a bit. Even though Harry’s Apparition skills weren't much better than they had ever been, he did manage to keep both of them from landing on their arses’s.

Harry could hear how rapid Malfoy’s breathing was. “All right, there?” he asked.

“I haven’t _Apparated_ since before Scorpius was born,” he admitted. “Where are we?” 

“The loading dock behind the Ministry at street level. We’re going in through those doors over there.” Harry gestured, and Malfoy turned to look at the large double doors nearly hidden behind two large blue trash bins. 

“And they can be opened with an _Alohomora_ , can they?” Malfoy asked dubiously.

“Well, no, not usually,” Harry answered with a wry grin. “It helps that my best friend is an Auror.”

“I’m sure it does. All right, how are we going to do this?”

“Let’s get off of the main street.” Harry led the way, slipping behind the bins which smelled suspiciously legitimate, and wrinkled his nose. He had to bite back a laugh at the disgusted look on Malfoy’s face. Harry took off his backpack and unzipped it, pulling out his formal professors' robes, shrunk to fit in the palm of his hand. Hermione had been very emphatic that he was to arrive ‘unwrinkled’. “Keep a look out, will you?” he asked, then stood and unbuttoned his coat. Malfoy’s eyes widened, and he whipped around to look toward the street but Harry noticed, to his gratification, that he kept glancing back over his shoulder as Harry pulled his jumper off over his head, then cast a warming charm when his teeth began to chatter. He’d worn the black wool trousers that matched the robes, and now resized the garments and pulled on a pair of black dress shoes, shoving his trainers into the rucksack. Following that was a black tunic that buttoned up to his chin, over which he added the long robes with the Hogwarts crest stitched on the front left breast. 

“Do these look right?” he asked. He’d worn the robes exactly once, to the Yule Ball the year before, and then Hermione had been there to straighten the over robes so they fit just right on the shoulders. He knew he was hopeless at it, and hoped Malfoy wouldn’t be offended by the question.

“Just,” he began, then reached out and pulled on the outer robes, settling them into place. He smoothed his palms over Harry’s shoulders, and Harry’s eyes widened as a shudder moved up his spine. “There.” Malfoy’s eyes darted up to Harry’s as he apparently realized that his hands were lingering. “Sorry, but you were lopsided. I mean, the robes…”

“It’s fine,” Harry assured him quickly, hoping his face wasn’t as red as it felt. “Thank you. I’m hopeless with clothes, I know.” He took a deep breath. “Okay, now for this.”

Malfoy’s embarrassment faded and he watched wide-eyed as Harry pulled the folded-up piece of velvety fabric from inside. Harry shook it out, and as it brushed his lower legs and black dress shoes, they disappeared. He heard Malfoy gasp. 

“That’s a – “

“Yes, it is.” 

Malfoy stared at him, his mouth slightly open. 

“What?” Harry said a bit defensively.

“You actually have a Deathly Hollow.” 

Hermione left that out when she wrote the history of their war time adventures, but rumours had swirled for years.

“I had all three of them once, but that’s a story for another day.” He tossed the back pack into a corner behind the bins, then gestured to Malfoy. “Come on.” Harry said, flipping out the fabric. “We have to stay close to one another, and it helps coordinate our movements if we… sorta touch.”

Malfoy’s brow arched. “Sorta touch?”

Harry huffed. “Don’t be a git. Okay, here goes.” He swirled the fabric around them like a magician’s cape, which he supposed it was, come to think of it. He settled the light weight fabric over them, then stepped forward until he could feel the heat of Malfoy’s body all along his side. He caught Malfoy’s wrist and felt him stiffen. 

“Just me,” he murmured.

“I know,” Malfoy sounded affronted and breathless at once. 

Harry opened the door with a flick of his wand, and they entered through the back doors of the Ministry main building in tandem. He squeezed on Malfoy’s wrist to stop him, and they paused long enough for Harry to flick his wand and lock the doors. 

The street level of the Ministry still took into consideration that a Muggle could, feasibly, wander in accidentally. There were sensors for Muggles in the walls, but because Harry was carrying a wand they were able to pass through without alarms sounding; he planned to ignore the requirement that had him register his wand at the information desk and decided he’d deal with any possible fall out later. There was no one in the very generic hallway; it looked like any Muggle office building, with ugly linoleum floors and walls painted grey. They moved through another set of doors, and the moment Harry locked them, the Ministry Atrium came into view.

Harry had never been in the Ministry during the holiday season before, and he felt a bit like he had when he’d first seen Hogwarts. Huge ornaments in a variety of sizes and colors hung from the enormously high ceiling, rotating slowly. Magicked snowflakes, in proportion to the ornaments, were drifting down, sparkling like glitter, disappearing just before they would have touched their heads. Along all of the walls were huge windows with different Christmas scenes; the one nearest to them showed a snow covered line of leaf-less trees, branches covered in snow. In the center one snow flocked fir tree stood, fairy lights gleaming through a magic twilight. It was a lovely scene, and Harry felt Malfoy pause beside him.

“Pretty, huh?” he said softly. 

“Very,” Malfoy answered, and Harry thought he wasn’t imagining the answering melancholy tone. 

They moved slowly and stayed near the wall, which was a good thing. The Atrium was crowded, as it always was, with hundreds of witches and wizards, memo’s in paper airplane form gliding through the air right above their heads. 

“We have to take a lift,” Harry said, leaning close to Malfoy’s ear. He was wearing a cologne that smelled of citrus and spice, and just the scent caused Harry’s heart to pick up its pace, then detoured straight to his cock. He was a sucker for a man who smelled good. 

“I figured,” Malfoy answered, and when he turned his head their cheeks brushed. “Oh, sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Harry replied. He wished he could lean in, their foreheads together, or find Malfoy’s full lips in their small enclosed space. He nearly groaned aloud. Gods, his timing was horrendous. “Anyway, we need to find a lift that’s empty, and stay near the back.”

“Right.” 

“The ones on this end are usually less used. They only go to the DMLE and the Administration floors.”

“So you’re taking me right into the Auror Department? That ought to be fun.” Malfoy was trying to sound casual, but Harry felt the tremor that went through his long frame.

“We aren’t going there; it’s okay.”

“Let’s just do this, all right? Standing around is making it worse.”

“Right.”

Harry pulled gently on his arm, and they moved toward the long lines in front of lifts, skillfully dodging witches and wizards every few steps. 

TBC


	16. Pilfered Decorating Schemes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: 

They made it to the lift furthest down the line, managing not to brush against anyone in the process. There were some quick looks of confusion when the lift doors opened; they were charmed to open when someone stood in front of them and from everyone else’s point of view, there was no one there. But as Harry had hoped, they just went on their way, hopefully chalking it up to another glitch in the Ministry’s systems. According to Ron, they happened all the time. With so much magic in one place, mistakes were bound to happen. Just the week before instead of showing homey Christmas scenes, the charmed windows showed a hurricane at sea. Apparently, hundreds of people went home seasick.

Harry pulled Malfoy gently to the back of the lift and didn’t breathe until the doors closed and the lift moved with no one in it but them. There truly had been no way to control where people stood, and it had been the one part of this plan that had made him nervous. Now that they were past that, Harry leaned against the wall, breathing a sigh of relief. They still had to get by the offices on the way to the Minister’s suite, but if everything had gone according to plan Hermione would meet them at the lift doors and lead the way. 

“Auror Department and Administrative Suites,” the woman’s smooth voice announced. Harry straightened, patting Malfoy’s arm as he did so. “Don’t stand so straight,” he whispered. “When you do that you’re taller than I am, and I’m afraid your feet show.”

“How about you don’t slouch?” Malfoy countered. “Then we’d be closer to the same height.”

For some reason, his prissy response, even in the midst of the Ministry, made Harry chuckle and snort at the same time, so it came out as something of a snorffle. 

“What the hell was that?” Malfoy asked, but Harry could hear the amusement in his voice. He looked over, and it was clear Malfoy was holding onto his self-control by his fingertips. Harry bit his lip, hard, to prevent himself from laughing.

“Don’t you dare,” he warned Malfoy, reaching out and pinching his arm.

“Hey.” Malfoy frowned at him. “That hurt.”

“Bet you don’t feel like laughing anymore though, do you?”

Malfoy’s eyes were steely but his lips trembled. “Well, I didn’t.”

“Just remember who’s on the other side of the doors,” Harry said. “The entire Auror Department.”

Draco caught his breath, amusement fading. “You’re a vicious bitch, Harry Potter.”

“Hey,” Harry complained, but he didn’t have time for anything else because the doors were sliding open on the floor for the DMLE, and he looked down the hall he could see dozens of the distinctive red Auror robes. Fortunately he also saw the bile green of a Healer just outside the door.

Hermione was leaning casually against the wall, a thick file folder in her hands. She glanced at the lift doors, and when they opened without anyone emerging she straightened away from the wall. 

Harry and Draco made their way over to her carefully. “Hermione,” Harry whispered. “We’re here.”

She started to glance to the side, then stopped herself. “Any problems?”

“No,” Harry answered. She looked as relieved as Harry felt. “So, shall we do this?”

“We’re going to wait another minute,” she said. 

“Why?” Malfoy asked, sounding a bit concerned. “It’s dangerous for us to just stand here, isn’t it?”

“We have reinforcements coming.”

“What?” Harry started, then saw a man with broad shoulders, bright red Auror uniform with the indication of his rank on the sleeve and a mop of bright red hair on his head come out of an office just down the hall. 

“Oh, Merlin,” Malfoy muttered.

“It’s okay,” Harry said, grabbing Malfoy’s cold hand and giving it a squeeze as Ron arrived next to his wife and dropped a kiss on her cheek.

“Well, hello love,” he said, perhaps a bit louder than necessary. “What’re you doing here?”

“I have an appointment with the Minister,” she said, giving him a flirtatious smile. “Care to escort me, handsome?”

Harry heard Draco make a stifled, repulsed sound and had to stifle another giggle. 

“Watch yourself, Malfoy,” Ron whispered. “Piss me off, and you lose these shoulders running Keeper for your sorry arse.”

Harry clutched Malfoy’s hand hard. “Seriously, this is better. Come on.”

Malfoy allowed Harry to pull him until they were standing right behind Ron and Hermione, much as he and Griphook had been in the lobby of Gringott’s. 

“You would make me owe him,” Malfoy complained but allowed himself to be positioned behind Ron’s bulk. 

Ron grinned as he and Hermione started off down the long hall, Harry and Malfoy behind them. 

“Gods, I’m loving this,” Ron said.

“Well, stop it,” Hermione said. “Gloating is unattractive.”

Malfoy snorted and again, Harry had to bite his lip to stop a burst of inopportune giggles. 

With Ron and Hermione in front of them, the only real danger was of one or the other of them stepping on the hem of the Invisibility Cloak, which didn’t happen. Ron dropped his arm around Hermione’s shoulders, and they chatted lightly until they reached the door to Kingsley’s office. Hermione put her hand on the door knob and opened the door, and Harry could see the Minister’s administrative assistant sitting at her desk in front of the massive doors that led to the ‘inner sanctum’, and realized they’d almost done it. 

“Almost done,” he whispered to Malfoy.

“Thank Christ,” he whispered back, and Harry could feel his hand was slightly damp, but it wasn’t the right time to tease him. 

“See you at home later,” Ron was saying to his wife. “I’ll cook.”

“I do love you,” Hermione said, raising her chin for his kiss. 

“I’ll expect two more for dinner,” Ron murmured as he turned to walk away. “I want details.”

“I’ll bring wine,” Harry replied, and Ron winked at the space he knew they occupied before walking away.

“He didn’t mean me, did he?” Draco asked, faintly horrified. Harry grinned at the dismayed expression on his face.

Harry followed Hermione into the expansive office, then immediately pulled Malfoy over to the wall. 

“Safer,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

Whoever had been charged with decorating the Ministry for Christmas had gone a bit mad in Kingsley’s outer office. Around each wall were dozens of twiggy trees reaching to the tall ceiling, the branches covered with red berries frosted with ice. The effect reminded Harry of some decorations he’d seen in pictures of the American’s White House the year before, and he planned to take the mickey out of Kingsley if he remembered it at the Ministry Christmas gala. And if he couldn’t figure out a way to get out of it.

“Managing Healer Hermione Granger-Weasley to see Minister Shacklebolt,” Hermione said, her tone clipped and professional. The assistant straightened in response. 

“He’s waiting for you, Healer,” she said, smiling brightly. “Just go on in.”

Hermione graced the young woman with a friendly smile. “Thank you, Janine.”

“Of course.” 

The woman hopped to her feet and opened the door, and Hermione walked past her into the large inner office. Harry pulled Malfoy in behind him so that they followed her in a single file, but was afraid his sleeve brushed Janine’s hand as he passed. She stopped and stared after Hermione, rubbing her hand, staring right at the two of them under the cloak, and Harry went still, waiting, the huge door closing slowly toward him. It was move or the door would stop on his hip. He was afraid she might actually be able to hear their hearts pounding. After a moment, she turned and went back out into her office, apparently deciding she hadn’t really felt anything other than a breeze after all. Harry held his breath, pulling Malfoy in behind him.

“Christ,” Malfoy muttered. 

“Yeah. No joke.”

“Hello, Kingsley,” Hermione was saying, reaching out. The Minister stood behind his desk, offering his huge hand in return. It engulfed Hermione’s. 

“Sit, sit,” Shacklebolt said jovially, gesturing to one of the two chairs in front of his desk. They were fully thirty feet from where Harry and Malfoy leaned against the wall, and Harry relaxed a little. They were in; now Hermione just had to do her thing. “It’s such a pleasure to see you again. I don’t have to tell you how disappointed I was when you went into Healing instead of the Ministry.”

“I imagine there are people who work for me at St. Mungo’s who feel the same way.”

Kingsley grinned, his teeth very white in his dark face. “I’m just glad your husband decided to join us. If we’d lost all three of you, that would have been a real tragedy.”

“Ah, but losing Harry was the worst, wasn’t it?” she said, and Harry wanted to kick her. She would do this with him standing in the room, unable to say a thing.

“Of course, we’d have loved to have Harry,” Kingsley agreed. 

“Do I have to listen to this?” Draco muttered. Harry bit his lower lip. 

“But I have to say I think Ron is a better Auror than Harry would’ve been.”

Ouch.” Malfoy grinned at him. 

“He’s right.”

“Oh, don’t take all the fun out of it for me.”

It was all Harry could do not to laugh, and he pinched Malfoy’s wrist, hard.

They’d missed the conversation after Kingsley’s announcement, something about how gratified Ron would be to hear it.

“So, what can I do for you, Hermione.” He sat back in his massive desk chair, his elbows on the arm rests and his fingers steepled in front of him. “I know you didn’t take the time to come over here so that we could discuss the merits of your husband’s work ethic.” He grinned again, and he had a fine, ageless face, Harry thought. His bald head gleamed in the soft overhead lighting, and the red berries were a good backdrop to his shining dark skin.

“No, Kingsley, I didn’t.” She laid the file on the surface of the black teak desk. “Something has occurred recently that I really need to speak to you about.”

“That sounds dire.”

“I’m afraid it’s extremely serious.”

His brow furrowed. “Well, please. Tell me.”

She sat completely composed, but Harry could see the way her shoulders stiffened, her neck held tight.

“In this file I have test results that prove, rather conclusively, that someone fairly high up in the Ministry tampered with my mind shortly after the war. I’m reasonably certain it was right after I got back from Australia, and before the trials were over.”

If Kingsley had known anything about it, Harry hoped he’d known him well enough to see it on his face. There was no mistaking his genuine shock. “Hermione,” he said. “That’s a fairly serious accusation. Do you have any idea who?”

She shook her head. “No, I wish I did. But it goes further than that, Kingsley. It wasn’t just me. It was done to Harry, too, considerably earlier than it was done to me. And I have proof.”

The Minister’s mouth had dropped open, and one of his hands had come up to cover his mouth. After a moment it fell into his lap. “Tell me what you have.”

“Harry and I both underwent a series of tests at St Mungo’s yesterday, performed by Healer Musgrave, head of our neurological and spell damage department.”

“I’m acquainted with Healer Musgrave,” he said. 

Hermione nodded in acknowledgement. “His work has revolutionized spell damage since the war. He has developed scans where he can read a wizard or witch’s memory banks, and based on the kind of defects and where they occur, can tell what caused it, and when the damage occurred.”

“That’s impressive.”

“He’s worked very hard. The point is, he came to some fairly disturbing conclusions based on the outcome of Harry and my tests. There are not only missing memories, but there were suggestions implanted into our minds.”

Kingsley was very still, his eyes unblinking. “This is different than an _Imperious_.”

“It had to be. Harry can throw off an _Imperious_ , and he’d recognize it if someone tried to cast on him. No, it wasn’t an _Imperious_.” She paused. “We also know that Voldemort’s followers were working on variations of mind control spells.”

Kingsley looked surprised. “How do you know that?”

“Okay,” Harry muttered. “That’s our cue.”

“Shit. Ok.” 

Harry could feel Malfoy trembling beside him. “It’ll be okay,” he said, and Malfoy turned to look at him. Their eyes held for a long moment. “It’ll be okay,” he repeated, and Malfoy swallowed, then nodded. “Okay.” He grinned, trying to get Malfoy to relax. “This ought to be fun.”

Malfoy shook his head.

With a twitch of his wand, the Invisibility cloak lifted off of them and folded itself on the floor.

TBC


	17. A Rocky Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: 

_“It had to be,” Hermione told Kingsley Shacklebolt, “Harry can throw off an _Imperious_ , and he’d recognize it if someone tried to cast on him. No, it wasn’t an _Imperious_.” She paused. “We also know Voldemort’s followers were working on variations of mind control spells.”_

_Kingsley looked surprised. “How do you know that?”_

_“Okay,” Harry muttered. “That’s our cue.”_

_“Shit. Ok.”_

_Harry could feel Malfoy trembling beside him. “It’ll be okay,” he said, and Malfoy turned to look at him. Their eyes held for a long moment. “It’ll be okay,” he repeated, and Malfoy swallowed, then nodded. “Okay.” Harry grinned, trying to get Malfoy to relax. “This ought to be fun.”_

_Malfoy shook his head. “You’re certifiable.”_

_“So it’s been said.” With a twitch of his wand, the Invisibility cloak lifted off of them and folded itself into neat quarters on the floor._

Before the Invisibility cloak had barely cleared their heads, Shacklebolt was on his feet with his wand in his hand, proving for a man his age he was remarkably fit. And Draco wouldn’t admit it to a living soul, but having Potter step in front of him, his own wand extended was shocking. And exhilarating.

“Harry!” Granger shouted, but Potter didn’t lower his wand, and didn’t move from in front of Draco. “You can’t point your wand at the Minister for Magic!”

“I’ll lower mine when you lower yours, Kingsley,” Potter said casually. “But he can’t use his wand, and I won’t leave him unprotected.”

“Potter, you idiot,” Draco said, giving him his filthiest look. “I don’t need your help.”

“Don’t you be an idiot,” Potter countered. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but he can hex a pimple off your arse at a hundred yards.”

“I don’t _have_ any pimples on my arse, thank you so much,” Draco sputtered, “and I don’t expect the Minister for Magic to hex me in his own office!”

“Harry, I’m lowering my wand,” Shacklebolt said, laying his wand on his desk and raising his hands. “And you can credit our long friendship with the fact I’m not calling the Aurors in here to take you into custody right now. You may be Headmaster of Hogwarts, but you aren’t Albus Dumbledore.” His voice was trembling with fury, but Draco noticed Potter didn’t seem the least bit disturbed by it. “Yet, anyway. Now, would someone care to explain to me just what the fuck is going on here?”

“Certainly,” Hermione said dryly, waving her wand and adding two additional chairs in front of Kingsley’s desk. They were wingbacks covered in elegant burgundy leather, and Draco admired her spell work even as his eyes flitted between Potter and the Minister. “Draco is here because he needs to be and the Invisibility Cloak was the only way to accomplish it, as he’s banned from the Wizarding World. And as has already been established, Harry is an idiot.” 

“Gee, thanks Hermione,” Potter drawled, slipping his wand back into its holster and approaching Kingsley’s desk, the black over-robes billowing around him. Draco hadn’t really seen how much fabric there was earlier, and it moved reminiscent of Severus’s bat like cape. It was weird to see it on Potter. He’d only taken a few steps when he turned back, mouthing ‘ _take off your coat_ ’. Draco unbuttoned it and let it slip from his shoulders before he followed Potter. 

“Now, what is this about Mr Malfoy needing to be here?” Kingsley snapped. 

“You asked how I knew the Death Eaters were working on variations of the existing mind control spells.” She gestured toward Draco. “We have a source of information. We also believe, once you agree to pardon Draco and allow us to argue for re-instatement before the Wizengamot, he needs to undergo the same tests Harry and I did. There is circumstantial evidence his mind was tampered with as well, and I’d like to have it verified.”

Kingsley looked between the three of them. “And you’re convinced that I’m going to allow the Wizengamot hearing to happen, are you? Convinced enough to risk sneaking him into the bloody Ministry?”

“Let us tell you what we know, and then you can decide if charges are warranted,” Hermione said with more than a hint of sarcasm, as if even nearly twenty years later, Shacklebolt wasn’t actually likely to level charges against the Deputy Head Auror’s wife and Harry bloody Potter. 

“You’re both over-stepping.” Shacklebolt glared at Potter in particular.

“We realize,” Potter said. He’d paused behind one of the two chairs and rested his hands on the back. Draco, still frankly as intimidated as hell by Kingsley Shacklebolt, stood well back, clutching his coat.

Shacklebolt sighed heavily. “Gods, you’re a pain in my arse, Harry.”

Potter laughed. “Good to know some things haven’t changed.”

“Oh, sit down,” the Minister order darkly. “You too, Mr Malfoy. Now,” he looked at Granger. “Tell me what the hell is going on here.”

_NoelNoelNoel_

Hermione had called Weasley once they were done with the Ministry and she was apparently _Apparating_ to Kent to fetch dinner at someplace called ‘Big Pan Foods’, promising Draco a meal unlike anything he’d ever had before. She promised a stunning Paella, which Draco loved, and imperiously sent them off to the wine sellers to get a couple of bottles of wine. Draco was still a bit shell shocked over the meeting with Minister Shacklebolt, and as he and Potter walked through the crowded Ministry Atrium unencumbered by the Invisibility Cloak, he was convinced he’d somehow managed to enter a parallel universe. In this new one he’d never been banned from Wizarding society, and walking through a crowded space populated with hundreds of wizards and witches with Harry Potter at his side was completely normal. Of course, it wasn’t, and he could feel the weight of hundreds of eyes as they walked together.

“Just ignore them,” Potter said blithely. 

Draco tried not to shift awkwardly. “Easy for you to say.”

“Really? Think that, do you?” Potter shook his head wryly. “They’ve been staring at me since I was eleven years old. The first time I walked into the Leaky Cauldron, some woman I’d never met told me it was a pleasure to meet me. I was a little kid in clothes four sizes too big, and some woman was ‘delighted to make my acquaintance’. After that, Hagrid sort of had to explain to me what was going on, because I was little but not stupid.”

“You’ve known him that long, then?” Draco asked, straightening his shoulders. People had looked at him when he’d been eleven, too, but usually because he was with his father and they were scared to death of Lucius. This was so much more hostile, very much the way they’d looked at the Malfoy’s when they’d been brought into the holding cells after the Battle of Hogwarts. They’d allowed the family to go back to the Manor to clean up, but it had been a singularly horrible experience. It had been one thing to have Voldemort stalking around like a ghost, haunting the halls of his home. It was completely another when he and his mother had to pass dozens of Aurors confiscating ‘items full of dark magic’ while on the way to their own rooms. For instance the portraits of his grandparent’s, which he’d seen carried out over someone’s shoulder. For all he knew those two actually were cursed objects. His father was taken into custody in the entryway as they _Apparated_ in, before they’d taken a step within their home. Lucius was taken to Azkaban in the tattered, over stitched leather tunic he’d been so proud of, by then much the worse for wear. He’d looked awful, and he’d never again looked any better.

Once they were in Diagon Alley, the staring grew both better and worse. Some people seemed more interested than hostile, but their eyes made the skin between Draco’s shoulders crawl. And then there were the ones who were openly unfriendly, like a group of young men near the Alley entrance from the Leaky. 

“Fucking Death Eater,” one of them said, spitting onto the pavement near Draco’s feet. He struggled to ignore them.

“Bloody queer,” another snarled. Draco felt Potter stop at his elbow.

“No,” Draco said, grabbing his sleeve. “No, no, no. Don’t be stupid.”

“But Hermione already established that I’m an idiot,” he said mildly.

“Let’s not prove it, all right? You can’t take on every bigot in Diagon.”

“Fucking faggots make is so’s a decent bloke can’t join his mates for a pint.” He was a large, ugly fellow, about their age and dressed like a day labourer, and Potter’s shoulders stiffened.

The smile Potter gave Draco wasn’t pleasant. “Wanna bet?” He turned around, taking a step back toward the small group, which Draco could now see contained three tough looking men, and shifting his weight so that he was in front of Draco. Potter’s unconscious gesture, for the second time that afternoon, filled Draco with a disquieting combination of annoyance and exhilaration.

“Evening, gents,” Potter said, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets. “You weren’t talking to me, were you?”

The man who’d accosted Draco narrowed his eyes. “What of it. Fancy bit of stuff like you, I bet you’d hit your knees for a galleon, wouldn’t you?”

Draco stared at him in dismay. “You really are just stupid, aren’t you, you poor thick sod.”

The man’s hands curled into fists, but one of his companions had apparently finally been able to see through the haze of alcohol hanging around them, and he caught the big mouth’s elbow. 

“Jimmy,” he hissed. “Give it a rest, mate. Can’t you see…”

“All I see is a couple of queers.” The way he said it made it sound so ugly. Potter’s arm stiffened beneath Draco’s hand, and Jimmy looked at them with an obnoxious leer. 

“Ya’ know, if you’ve got a death wish, that’s on you,” the second man said. “I don’t have to follow you through the gates of perdition. Come on, Denny. Old Jimmy has a death wish.” The man who’d tried to get Jimmy to listen turned to stagger away.

“What the fuck, Reg?” ‘Jimmy’ said. His friend turned back, pointing a trembling finger at Potter.

“That there? That’s Harry Potter. Remember him? I watched him kill a Dark Lord. And the blond there? That’s a bleedin’ Malfoy. So if you’ve a desire to have your spleen handed to you, that’s on you. Me? I’m going home to the wife. I don’t care who Harry Potter wants to fuck; I’m jus’ glad I’m still around to fuck anyone. And I don’t remember seeings you at the Battle of Hogwarts, so put a sock in it.” He pointed at Jimmy, whose red eyes had gone a bit wild. “And just so we’re clear, you spend entirely too much time talking about queers, and I’m sick of it. Makes me wonder if you don’t have some issues you might want to address.” He turned to walk away and managed to stagger right into the brick wall next to the doorway leading into Flourish and Blotts. 

Jimmy, losing some of the florid color in his face, tottered after him, flattening him against the bricks. 

“Oi, get off of me, you great big bugger. I don’t swing that way and you know it, seeings how I’ve been married to your sister for the last ten years. You’re too ugly to see any gay action, anyway.”

Jimmy cuffed him in the side of his head, knocking off his hat. “Shut it, Reg.”

They lurched off into the darkness after ‘Reg’ picked up his hat and Jimmy shot one last look over his shoulder at them. 

Draco heard Potter exhale. 

“So what exactly were you planning to do?” Draco asked. “Hex him in the balls? After the stunt with your Invisibility Cloak earlier, don’t you think we’ve taken enough risks this afternoon? Or are you just feeling reckless?”

“I,” Potter said with careful clarity, “was going to turn him into a pile of flobberworms.” 

Draco grimaced. “Charming.”

“I thought it went with his intelligence level.”

“You won’t get any argument from me.” Draco held up his hands. “Can we just go get the wine? I’m truly not much interested in having to defend my sexuality again, and apparently this coat looks queer to wizards. It’s been a long afternoon.”

“I like it, but it might be a bit girly.”

“Oh, you’re hilarious.” Draco started off down the alley, ignoring the interested looks he was getting. 

“And you wouldn’t have had to defend it, by the way,” Potter said, sleeving a wand Draco hadn’t even noticed was out, (and when had he done that, anyway?) turning to walk down the alley. “I would have done it for you.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Potter,” Draco growled. “I’m not some bloody damsel who needs to have my honour defended.”

Potter shot him a rakish smile over his shoulder. “Noticed that, actually. And if you were a damsel, I wouldn’t have much interest in defending anything you’ve got.” Potter was off down the street again, and Draco stared after him.

He opened his mouth to retaliate, but the breadth of Potter’s shoulders, and the way the fabric flowed out behind him made Draco’s face feel hot. 

He closed his mouth, wishing Potter’d had a chance to use that flobberworm spell. Jimmy would have only been improved by it, and Draco could remember how utterly hot Potter was with magic swirling around him like a lightning storm ready to explode.

Once they had the wine purchase in hand and were out in the street again, Potter stepped in close and Draco caught his breath. “Trust my _Apparition_ talents?” Potter asked.

“I trust any of your talents,” Draco said without thinking. Harry raised an eyebrow at him with a saucy smirk, and Draco felt his face turn red.

“At least my wand skills,” Potter said with a rough purr in his voice, and Draco swallowed hard.

He closed his eyes, fighting an inappropriate giggle, feeling suddenly twelve years old. Gods, he ached with wanting Potter’s ‘wand’ in his hand. 

TBC


	18. Dinner with the Weasley's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: 
> 
> Note: Because I was offline with computer problems, this fic will continue to post after Christmas. I expect it to finish around New Year's Eve.
> 
> Also...  
> Yes, I know Rose is the same basic age as Al, Scorpius and Lily, but I changed it so Draco could play Barbie's; get over it. lol

They’d landed on the nearly deserted lane that led to Ron and Hermione’s small but homey cottage, and snow swirled up around them for a moment. Harry was reminded of one of Rosie’s favourite Disney films, the one where the young woman was a house servant who became a princess. The fairy godmother who turned her rags into a ballgown waved her wand, and twinkling stars swirled around Cinderella as the blue gown flowed down over her. That was what the snow looked like to Harry and he caught his breath as the sparkling flakes lifted Malfoy’s soft hair, and glittered in his cool gray eyes. They both went very still until the snow settled again, and then Malfoy looked around, stepping back.

“Where are we?”

“Ottery St Catchpole. Ron and Hermione have a cottage just over the rise.” 

They set off side by side, Harry still faintly disconcerted. 

Nothing changed from that mind set as they arrived at the house. Malfoy complemented Hermione on the lovely decorations, and they were quite lovely, and met Rose Weasley, taking her little hand and etching a courtly bow. She was instantly charmed and pulled Malfoy over to where her Barbie dolls were arranged in an incomprehensible pile on the floor. He sat beside her next to the fireplace while she introduced each doll, long legs crossed beneath him, nodding seriously and ‘making their acquaintance’. Harry and Hermione exchanged a mystified look and Ron just grinned. 

“Rosie could charm the birds from the trees,” he muttered, and Harry could only agree. He’d been charmed by her since she’d been two minutes old. 

And if Harry lived to be a hundred and fifty years old, he never could have imagined an evening like this one; Rosie went off to bed with only a faint complaint, making Malfoy promise he’d ‘come back to play’ and he, Ron, Hermione and _Malfoy_ , of all people, sat around their scarred kitchen table, a battered high chair in the corner, surrounded by Paella and spicy South African Curry. The paella was rich and flavourful, the curry made his eyes water, the wine was “red and fruity.” Which had nearly made him giggle when Malfoy said it in that upper crust tone of his. 

“The Tempranillo is a bit sweet on its own,” he’d gone on as he’d picked up the second bottle, “but the fruity quality is good with the paella.”

Both Ron and Hermione nodded as if they had the vaguest idea what he was talking about, then they’d all got a case of the giggles.

“Fruity,” Ron said. He jerked, wincing painfully as he looked mournfully at Hermione. “I wasn’t going to go there, ‘Mione. I swear.”

She rolled her eyes as Malfoy opened the bottle with Ron and Hermione’s corkscrew.

“So, why not just pop the cork with your wand?” Harry asked. Malfoy sneered at him.

“You don’t know the first thing about wine, do you?”

“Only enough to drink it like he’s got a hallow leg,” Ron muttered. “Bloody git can drink like a fish and it never shows. I’ll be landing on my arse in the gutter, and he’ll be helping me up. It’s embarrassing, is what it is.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you’re a light weight.” Harry turned back to Malfoy as Ron sputtered in indignation. “And so why shouldn’t you open wine with your wand?”

Malfoy had poured all around, and now he swallowed a forkful of paella and wiped his lips with his napkin. It was actually a paper towel, and he hadn’t so much as raise a brow when Ron had handed it to him. 

“Magic changes the flavour of the wine,” he explained in a soft voice. “The fermenting process is something of magic in its own right, you know. The best vintners are all wizards.”

Hermione looked startled. “I didn’t know that.”

Ron grinned. “Ten points to you, mate.” He saluted Malfoy with his wine glass. “You just told her something she didn’t know.”

Hermione swatted his shoulder.

Malfoy smiled, but there was more than a hint of melancholy in it. “My uncle Marsdon is a vintner. He owns a winery in the south of France, and their champagne has won awards internationally.” He sighed softly, picking up his glass. “He fell out with my father during the first war, when he refused to support Voldemort financially. But the family wine is still excellent.” He saluted them with the glass, and Harry picked up the bottle and studied the label. It read, ‘ _Malefoy Etablissement Vinicole_ ’. 

“This is from your Uncle’s winery,” he said, then passed the bottle into Hermione’s outstretched hand. 

“Oh, my goodness,” she said. Malfoy coloured. 

“Well, I figured as long as we were buying wine, we could give him our custom. I’ve never met him, but…”

“No, I understand,” Hermione agreed quickly. “And it’s excellent.”

After that it took a few minutes for conversation to start up again, but Harry stared at his wine thoughtfully. He understood only too well having family he’d never met; his parents, his grandparents, all lost to the first war. There had apparently been an Aunt on his dad’s side, but her family decamped to the US as soon as they’d been able. They were in Vermont. Molly was something of a genealogist, and she’d found them for him, but he’d never known how to begin that conversation. “Oh, hi, I’m Harry, James’s son. You know that Dark Lord who caused all the trouble? Well, I killed him.” Yeah, he’d never found a way to begin that letter. He’d decided it was probably better not to disturb the new life they’d made. 

“Malfoy, more paella?” Ron offered, and Malfoy held up his plate.

“Listen,” Hermione said abruptly, “I’m going to propose a change. I think we can all acknowledge that we’re adults, can’t we?”

She looked around the table expectantly. It seemed advisable to nod. Even Malfoy nodded.

“Then I’d like us to stop calling each other by our last names. I believe we’re mature enough to handle first names, don’t you?” She looked at Harry expectantly. 

“Uh, sure,” he said gamely. He turned to Mal – Draco. “I’ve known you twenty years, _Draco_. I think we can do this, don’t you?”

Draco looked into his eyes, and his lips quirked up to the side slowly. “I agree.” He picked up his glass, and Harry noticed the slight tremble in his hand but would never in a million years mention it. “Ron, Hermione,” he saluted them, then turned to Harry. “Harry. To – friends.”

“Friends,” the others repeated. Hermione’s smile was wide as she took them all in, and Harry realized she was more than a bit sozzled. 

They’d moved on to Hermione’s excellent chocolate cake for dessert, and both bottles of wine were gone. The conversation was flowing, and they were all gasping with laughter at a story Draco told about his Aunt Walburga accidentally sitting on Kreacher at a Christmas Eve dinner. They all remembered the vicious bitch in the portrait at Grimmauld. Harry had sold the house years before, but he’d nearly had to remove the wall in order to be rid of the portrait. 

He was still gasping with laughter when the bell on the Floo rang. Kingsley Shacklebolt's head appeared in the green flames. 

“Minister!” Hermione said, jumping to her feet. She stumbled a bit and Ron surreptitiously straightened her. “What… I’m sorry sir, but what are you doing here?”

“Well, Mrs Weasley, I’ve been quite busy since you and your compatriots left here earlier. I’ve gone over the files you left for me with the medical reports, and I’ve taken into consideration Mr Malfoy’s testimony. And as a result…” He paused, and Harry knew it was for effect. He liked Kingsley very much, but the man did love the sound of his own voice. “I’ve scheduled a trial before the full Wizengamot for Friday, in order for you to present your evidence with the possible outcome of Mr Malfoy’s sentence being commuted to time served. I’m not sure we can get it reversed as that would require a unanimous vote. I doubt we can get the contrary old asses to go along with that. I’d also like to try to find out who was responsible for it, but I’m not sure that would be possible.”

They all sat there in stunned silence. Finally, Hermione managed to speak. “That’s wonderful!” she said, a brilliant smile growing. “Draco, isn’t that wonderful?”

“Wonderful,” Draco said weakly. Harry thought he looked as if someone had punched him in the gut.

TBC


	19. Bubbles of Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: 

Draco felt as if he might vomit.

He was sitting in the anteroom of the Wizengamot’s full meeting chamber, his hands clutched in his lap. Along with his feet they were so cold they felt like blocks of ice, and his heavy winter robes felt weird on his body. He hadn’t worn robes in so long that it felt as if he was only half dressed. So much so he’d gone back after meeting Harry on the corner near his flat, run up the three flights, and put on skinny jeans underneath them. When he came back down, Harry had been standing right where he’d left him, his arms crossed over his chest. Gods, he’d been sexy, robes pulling taut over his biceps, feet braced and planted. 

“Better?” Harry asked him wryly. 

“Yes,” Draco answered, forcing a frown, pulling on his gloves. 

It was weird no one seemed to even notice them as they walked to the nearest _Apparition_ point, two wizards in full formal regalia. Potter even had his Order of Merlin, First Class pinned to the front of his black Hogwarts Headmaster’s robes, and it wasn’t exactly a small medal. It wasn’t until they’d gone four blocks that Draco felt a nagging at the back of his mind. 

“Notice me Not spell?” he guessed.

Harry looked over at him. “Seemed like a good idea. And that’s pretty impressive, too.”

“What is?” Draco said, crossing his arms.

Harry gave him a sardonic look. “Have you always been able to sense wandless magic?”

“I don’t think so.” Draco frowned. There was something important he should remember, but it was just out of his reach. “It’s honestly been so long since I was around much magic, I’d mostly forgot about that.”

“Can Scorpius do it?” Harry studied Draco intently, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“I don’t think so?”

Harry gave him an arch look. 

“I’ve always been very good at spell detection,” Draco answered finally, looking away. “How long have you been able to do wandless magic?”

He looked back in time to catch the blush on Harry’s face. “It feels like forever, but I guess since the war. Seemed like a good thing to know. It’s no big deal.”

Draco stared at him, his mouth open. “It’s no big deal?”

Harry shrugged. To him, apparently, it really wasn’t. Draco couldn’t imagine being so casual about a gift like that. One in a hundred wizards could do wandless magic. _Voldemort_ hadn’t been able to do wandless magic. 

Now Draco sat on the hard bench, waiting anxiously to be called into the main chamber to testify. He and Hermione had gone over his testimony a dozen times, at least, and she and Harry were already inside. Draco’s knee bounced, and all he wanted was a distraction so he wouldn’t think about where he was, or how cold he was. Or that there was something he should remember, and couldn’t. It was driving him a bit mental.

The bone deep chill in his limbs brought back a memory from when he’d been perhaps four or five, long before he’d gone to Hogwarts. It was Christmas time, his very favourite time of year, and he and his mother were out in one of the Manor’s sleighs. The Malfoy’s apparently kept everything over the decades, including a whole selection of sleighs from as far back as the War of the Roses. The one they were in was perhaps a hundred years old, pulled by a high stepping black Andalusian, his mane and tail flying in the breeze. Draco could almost feel the memory of it on his face, hear the sleigh bells ringing, their sound echoing through the trees. He closed his eyes and let his memory carry him back. 

His mother had been holding his hand under the thick lap robe of dark fur, and she leaned close. 

“As lovely as Augustus is,” she said, speaking of the horse, “he isn’t very Christmasy, is he?”

He shook his head, thinking of the story she’d read him the night before. It was a Muggle book, but they hid it under his bed so his father wouldn’t know he had it. Draco loved his father, but was more than just a little bit afraid of him, too. Anyway, ‘The Night Before Christmas’ had utterly charmed him, and he looked up at his mother in anticipation. She’d lifted her hand and the eleven-hundred-pound horse shrank before his eyes and transformed into a beautiful furry reindeer, great antlers growing from his head and leather straps with bells around his chest. She smiled down at him, and with another hand gesture the reindeer surged forward, lifting into the air. Waves of magic lifted the sleigh, little sparks of light swirling through the air, effervescent bubbles of joy bouncing in his tummy. He’d laughed in delight and clutched his hands over his middle, leaning over the side to watch the ground shrink away with the absolute trust of a child until his mother grabbed the back of his sweater, admonishing him to be careful.

He smiled. It was one of his favorite memories of his mother, and yet he hadn't thought of it in years. Now he sat in the freezing antechamber with his eyes closed, and he remembered something else she’d said to him.

“You have a gift, Draco, a special one. You can sense magic. I know you don’t understand what that means, but you will. When your mind tells you to pay careful attention, listen to it. Someday it will be very, very important.”

He hadn’t understood, not for a very long time. And then his father was arrested at the Ministry during his fifth year, and his entire magical core seemed to go onto red alert. Voldemort inspired it, and his Aunt Bella. The wild magic bouncing around inside of the Manor made his stomach react. Sixth year he’d barely been able to keep a meal down because it had made him sick. And Harry; Harry had always made Draco’s senses crawl, but it was different with him. He wished he understood what that meant. And how he could have so completely forgot about it for nearly twenty years.

“Mr Malfoy?” 

His eyes shot open and he looked up to find the Court Scribe of the Wizengamot standing outside the slightly open door, looking down at him as if he was a bomb that might unexpectedly go off.

“They’re ready for you.” 

Draco stood slowly, his hands twisting in his robes.


	20. You’re a wizard, Mr Malfoy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: 

Harry watched the heavy door as the Court Scribe went out to bring Draco in, unable to take his eyes off of it. Draco had looked tired and worn thin when he’d met him that morning, and Harry was concerned about how wan he appeared. He doubted Draco would appreciate it, but Harry didn’t care; he couldn’t help it. He’d finally acknowledged to himself that he was attracted to Draco, and he was pretty sure Draco felt, if not the same, at least something for him, too. Harry understood the shared long looks, the fleeting touches. What they meant in the long run was still a mystery. But if they could get Draco’s sentence reversed, if he might actually be able to teach at Hogwarts… well, they’d have to take things one step at a time but the thought caused Harry’s heart rate to accelerate. 

“If you’re trying to keep people from guessing there’s something going on between the two of you,” Hermione leaned toward him and whispered, “you’re doing a terrible job of covering it up.”

Harry turned his head, shooting her a stern look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, sure.”

He shot her a stern frown, but she crossed her arms and ignored him. 

The outer door opened and the scribe entered and paused, waiting. Draco came through behind him, and Harry heard the rush of conversation that slipped through the assembled crowd. He came to them, elegant in silver, his white blond hair glowing from the light of braziers along the walls, flowing down the stairs like a wraith. Harry was certain he’d never seen a man so graceful in his life. Compared to him Harry felt rough and unshaved and rawboned, a half-finished statue compared to a Michelangelo. But the softening of Draco’s lips, not quite a smile but close, made Harry’s heart lift.

“Oh, well, isn’t he lovely,” Hermione whispered, and Harry nodded. 

“Isn’t he just.”

“Merlin, I think even I could get a stiffy for that.” 

Harry and Hermione both turned to Ron, who had slipped in beside them, taking in the surprised expressions on their faces. He held up his large hands, showing every appearance of trying very hard not to laugh at them.

“It’s the couch for you,” Hermione sniffed. Ron’s grin never faded.

Harry could feel that she was studying him, and he looked over at her. Her eyes gleamed with amusement. “Oh dear, you’ve got it quite bad, haven’t you?” Her glee ripened. “You have absolutely no idea how long I’ve waited to see you make a damned fool of yourself.”

“Oh, fuck you,” he muttered, but Kingsley was pounding on his sound block with a mallet, and the room slowly settled into restive silence. Draco slid silently into the space beside him, and Harry could feel his presence all along his side. 

“How is it going?” he whispered to Harry.

“Not bad, I don’t think,” Harry answered. “But who really knows.”

Draco nodded, studying the crowd. “Gods, Umbridge is here.”

Harry nodded. He’d noticed her right after the hearing had begun, kitten pin on her collar and huge curl in the middle of her forehead. “God only knows how, but yes, she is. I wouldn’t count on that vote if I were you.”

Draco made a soft, disparaging sound.

“Fuck, I feel like they’re trying to stare a hole through me,” he crossed his arms tightly. The representatives of the Wizengamot were staring, and Harry realized other than articles in the paper, a lot of these people probably hadn’t seen either of them since the end of the war. They’d been tired, worn children then, Draco in particular. Things had changed.

“Healer Granger-Weasley,” Kingsley said when the restless crowd finally settled. “If you’d care to continue?”

“I turn the floor over to Hogwarts Headmaster Harry Potter.”

_NoelNoelNoel_

Even though it had been twenty years since the end of the war, there was something about simply announcing Harry’s name to a crowd like this that caused them to sit up straighter, to pay closer attention. Even Umbridge, and Draco desperately wanted to toss her an obscene gesture. She was worse than the Death Eaters he’d known; at least they’d had the courage of their convictions. She was just a vicious bitch, determined to come out at the top no matter what prejudiced crap she honestly believed. He hated her, and wished he’d been able to say it was her who had fiddled with their memories. Unfortunately, if he was going to be honest he had to admit it wasn’t; she’d been able to prove she was in St Mungo’s with a severe case of post-traumatic stress, thanks to the centaurs, at the end of the war.

Harry stood beside him, and after a surge that sounded a lot like a rush of wind through trees, the room settled. Draco turned and his eyes were glued to Harry’s handsome face; to the thick black hair and bright green eyes, the sharp cheek bones and the square chin. When he began to speak, he studied the faces before him.

“In November of 1998,” he began, “Draco Malfoy, his mother and his father all sat in front of a Wizengamot tribunal in order to be tried for crimes against wizarding kind. Lucius, as I believe everyone agreed at the time, was found guilty of sedition, treason and murder, and returned to finish his sentence for breaking into the Ministry, with a life sentence attached to the end. He died a decade into his sentence, and I doubt there are many who didn’t think he deserved it, including his son. But for Narcissa and Draco, I believe there was a serious miscarriage of justice.” There was a burst of disbelieving sound, and Harry held up his hand. “I know some of you are going to disagree with me, based on the name alone. But you’d be wrong about that,” he said firmly. “As wrong as I was not to stay and testify, because I have important facts to add to the transcripts of both trials.” Harry’s eyes moved over the crowd, and they seemed to hang on his every word. “In January of 1998, Ron and Hermione Weasley and I were taken captive by a group of Snatchers, and taken to Malfoy manor.” This was common knowledge, as was Hermione’s torture at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange. Hermione had written a biography that contained a great deal of information about their year on the run. Interestingly, nothing about the Malfoy’s. None of them thought that odd at the time, but now their absence was glaring. “While we were being held, Draco Malfoy was asked by both his father and aunt to identify us. There is no doubt in my mind that he knew who we were.” Again, Harry’s laser green eyes moved over the crowd. “He refused to identify us, no doubt saving our lives and changing the outcome of the war.” 

An eruption of noise filled the chamber. Kingsley brought his gavel down on the sound block, and within moments the room was silenced. 

“Narcissa Malfoy, who unfortunately didn’t live to see this hearing, lied to the Dark Lord in front of hundreds of his followers, telling him I was dead when I wasn’t. This was another moment where a Malfoy saved me, changing the conclusion of the war. I think we can all admit that these were turning points, where the opposite result would have been disastrous. I will swear that these events are true, and will volunteer to testify under veritaserum if there is anyone who has questions about my honesty.” 

Draco knew his mouth had dropped open, and he saw Hermione’s head whip around as she stared at Harry, her brows pulled down in a frown.

“I’m certain that won’t be necessary,” Kingsley said magnanimously. 

“Never the less, the offer is on the table.”

Draco could see Harry was staring fixedly at someone, and he followed the direction of his gaze. Umbridge was staring right back, her lips in a tight little smile. Draco could almost hear her twittering, and the thought made him sick to his stomach. 

“We’ll be happy to take questions,” Harry announced firmly, and there was another eruption of noise. Kingsley held up his hand.

“This will be conducted in a civil manner,” he said resolutely. “I will cut it off and make an administrative decision, without involvement of this body, if you can’t behave yourselves.”

Draco could see they didn’t like it, but hands were raised instead of voices. 

They took questions for perhaps twenty minutes, Harry and Hermione answering the vast majority of them. Finally, a witch Draco didn’t recognize directed the question at him he’d been dreading. 

“Mr Malfoy,” she said, her jaw lifted just clear of her quivering double chin. “If this testimony is true, and I’m not questioning Mr Potter’s veracity,” she added in quickly, “I just want all facts to be in evidence. Why would it be necessary for you to identify _any_ of the golden trio? It’s not as if their faces aren’t well known in the wizarding world.”

Draco paused for a moment. “My Aunt had been is Azkaban for many years, so it didn’t surprise me she was uncertain who Mr and Mrs Weasley were. And I believe it was discovered that Mrs Weasley had hit Potter in the face with a stinging hex, causing it to swell and become unrecognizable.”

“That’s correct,” Hermione added. “I hexed Harry’s face so that no one just looking at him would know who he was.”

“That was rather quick thinking,” the witch said. “I’m just confused as to why you wouldn’t simply identify the Weasley’s, if not Potter.”

Draco felt his face heat but he straightened his spine. “I didn’t identify them because I knew if I did my father would summon the Dark Lord, and that would be the end of… everything.”

The witch crossed her arms over her chest. “Meaning what?”

Draco licked his lips. “Life as I knew it,” he said finally. “The end of hope. Voldemort was a madman.” Someone actually gasped at his use of the name, but Draco went on. “So many people had already died at that point; he actually fed one of my former teachers to that snake of his at our formal dining room table, with nearly a hundred people in attendance and no one tried to stop him. I knew Potter was our only hope; if I told Aunt Bella who he was, I was writing his death sentence. And I couldn’t do it.”

“You still haven’t explained why you didn’t tell the Wizengamot this before,” she said sternly.

He met her eyes. “No one asked me.”

Heads bent towards one another as the members conferred. 

“I also believe,” Hermione said, “when Draco is allowed to come to St Mungo's for the same tests Harry and I have undergone, we’re going to find areas of his brain have been altered, much as ours have been.”

“Which means that whoever did this had to be someone with access to all of us.” Harry studied their faces. “I would very much like to know who that was.”

“I assure you, Harry,” Kingsley said, “that when we find out they will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.” He glared around the room and an uneasy silence settled. “I propose we put the original amendment to a vote. In regards to motion 497 before the full Wizengamot, wherein correction of the transcript of Narcissa Black Malfoy’s trial is undertaken, and her contributions to Harry Potter’s ultimate victory over Thomas Riddle are included, I propose her guilty sentence be overturned. By show of hands.” 

Draco was still standing, and his knees began to tremble when the motion obviously carried by a large majority. Hermione grasped his hand, hard, and his vision blurred. 

“The motion is carried,” Kingsley announced, nodding in Draco’s direction. “In regards to motion 516 before the full Wizengamot, wherein correction of the transcript of Draco Abraxas Malfoy’s trial is undertaken, and his contributions to the survival of Harry Potter, Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley are included, I propose his guilty sentence be overturned. By show of hands.”

Perhaps because he’d been such an obnoxious little shit to half of the people in the room, the vote wasn’t as clear. But ultimately, after a careful count of hands the motion carried 278 to 135. Draco began to shake. 

“In amendment 516a I further propose that Draco Abraxas Malfoy’s sentence be overturned,” Kingsley continued, “and that his re-admittance to the wizarding world, including all rights and privileges as a wizard, be restored, and that any limitations on his performance of magic be lifted. By show of hands?”

There were some who simply didn’t vote, mostly older wizards and witches with sour faces, but those who did carried the motion definitively. 

Harry leaned against his side. “You know what that means?”

Draco looked over at him, swallowing heavily. “I’m a wizard.”

Harry’s grin was blinding. “Yes, you are.”

Kingsley closed the hearing with a decisive pound of his gavel, and they all stood there, stunned, for several seconds. 

“We won,” Hermione said, sounding a bit dazed. 

“We did.” Harry agreed. He laughed as he turned to Draco. “We did it. You can teach. If you want.” He suddenly looked shy, such a counterpoint to how strong he’d looked all afternoon, that Draco wanted nothing more than to pull him into his arms and hug him. He didn’t.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked him, touching his arm.

“I’m freezing,” Draco was finally able to say, and his teeth were chattering as if in agreement. Delayed reaction took over, and his entire body began to tremble.

“Ours,” Ron said, and they all agreed. Within a few minutes, Hermione had gathered up all of their paperwork, they’d spoken briefly with Kingsley, and they were making their way up to the main level and to the Floo’s. Several Wizengamot members shook his hand, to Draco’s surprise, but he’d never remember who they were. They stepped into the Floo and moments later were tumbling out into Hermione and Ron’s sitting room. To his utter surprise, his son met him with a hug. 

“Well done, Dad,” he said against his ear. Draco put his arms around Scorpius and held him, hard. Moments later Albus Potter was there with a glass of wine. 

“What are you doing here?” Draco asked numbly, his lips feeling thick.

“Well, we figured if you won, you’d come here,” Scorpius said brightly. “And if you didn’t, you’d go straight to your flat and you wouldn’t want to talk to anyone.” Hermione briskly informed him his father was freezing, and Scorpius pushed Draco into an over-stuffed chair near the fire and bent to pull off his dress shoes. Hermione handed him a thick pair of socks that had appeared from somewhere, and Scorpius rolled them over his dress socks as Hermione laid a lap robe over his legs.

“I’m not an invalid,” Draco argued.

“Are you getting warm?” Hermione asked, one brow arched. 

“Yes,” he admitted. 

“Then just shut it and enjoy it,” she ordered. Scorpius laughed as a warmth stole into his feet slowly. Draco smacked his arm lightly, but his expression was indulgent. Behind him, Albus and Lily were handing out glasses of wine all around. “It was actually Lily’s idea, but I think it was brilliant.” The teen-agers exchanged a look, and Draco sighed. He’d deal with that wrinkle another day. For now, his feet were thawing, and he had a glass of excellent wine in his hand, care of his Malefoy relatives in France. 

He felt a forceful gaze, and looked up to find Harry watching him from across the room, intensity in his eyes and slight smile on his lips. 

Things hadn’t looked so bright in a long time.


	21. Fly Away With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this part: 

Because it bears repeating:  
_Once again, I’ve taken liberties with the age of the kids in this piece of fan fiction. Rose and Hugo are fully fifteen years younger than they are in canon; I figured that by the time Hermione finished Uni and Medical school, which is about eight years, four more if she specialized, it would make them about this age. In my head, anyway!_

It had been nearly twenty years since Draco had been to anything like a holiday party. Admittedly, the get together at the Weasley’s was more about their victory before the Wizengamot than about the holiday, but the tree in the corner and the candles tucked in amongst the greens along the mantle-piece added all the festivity any Yule party might need. They all drank enough wine that food became a necessity, and even though he wasn’t a fan he ate two pieces of the pepperoni pizza the teens insisted on when it was ordered. It was greasy, and hot, and perfect. 

Albus, Scorpius and Lily were sent back to Hogwarts through the Floo so they could pack a trunk and ride the train home for hols. Molly had spent the day watching Rose and Hugo, and she brought them home about half five. Harry murmured to Draco that they should probably leave before he got roped into another game of Barbie’s, and Draco agreed but made his regrets to Rose, relieved that she and Hugo already had plans to watch Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer on the telly. The kids were big fans of pizza, which pleased Hermione; that way she could stay in a chair with her feet up, and she gave them both a smile when they waved from the doorway. 

Draco followed Harry and Ron through the garden, staying to a path that had been shovelled from the back door to the garage. He’d heard Harry say something to Ronald about ‘the bike’ and a sobering potion, but he just followed along, blissfully enjoying the cold evening air on his over-heated cheeks. Ron opened a sliding garage door and the lights inside of the small building flicked on. 

When he stepped inside, his first impression was it was surprisingly warm, and his second that it was surprisingly _neat_. There was a strong odour of petrol, and a family sized black Range Rover. Draco’s brows rose; being an Auror must pay better than he thought. He saw Ron reach into a small refrigerator on a work bench and hand Harry a vial with a lurid purple potion in it. Harry pulled the cork and downed it in one long drink, and Draco watched Harry’s throat work as he swallowed. 

“Make sure you don’t leave even a drop,” Ron said firmly. “Hermione’ll have my arse otherwise.”

Harry held up the vial to show that he’d finished it all, and Ron took it from him, tossing it onto the bench. He then went to an odd shaped… something covered in a silver tarp, and pulled the plastic covering away. Beneath it was a large motor bike with a sidecar, and Draco gaped.

“What is that?” he asked rhetorically. Of course, he knew it was a motor bike, but honestly, he’d never seen one up close before.

Harry gave him a wry smile. “Motorcycle,” he answered. “A nineteen seventy four Harley Davidson, to be specific, with a Triumph sidecar.”

“But – where did you even get such a thing?” 

“It belonged to my Godfather,” Harry answered, running his hand fondly over the shining silver chrome on the handlebars. Draco was astonished the bike was forty-five years old; it looked brand new. As Draco watched, Harry pulled his wand from his arm holster and touched it to a few places, removing the side car and recovering it carefully. He paused, looking at Draco. “Unless you’d rather do that than ride bitch?”

Draco drew himself up. “I beg your pardon.”

Harry and Ron both laughed. “It’s an Americanism,” Harry explained. “It means to ride behind someone else. Although with the robes the side car might be easier…” He looked thoughtful.

“I’m not riding in the little – car, you call it? Why can’t I just _Apparate_?”

Harry tried to hide it, but he was disappointed. “You can, I suppose. If you want to risk splinching.”

Draco turned to Ron. “You have another sobering potion?”

His grin was unrepentant. “Sorry, that was the last of it.”

Draco wanted to curse. 

Harry’s eyes were slightly beseeching. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

“Famous last words.” Draco looked at the motorcycle again. “Is it like riding a broom?”

Harry’s grin brightened. “It is, actually. Scarier, because you’re on the ground.” His lips quirked. “Unless we take it up.”

“Up, as in… up?” Oh, to fly, Draco thought. To actually fly again…

Harry nodded. “As in up.”

“But what about that pricey robe?” Ron asked. “I suppose you can hike it up around your hips. If you’re riding bitch anyway.”

Draco gave him a withering look. “Do you talk to your wife and daughter with that mouth?”

Ron’s smile was bright. “I do. I just don’t say that. Ever. I like my bollocks right where they are. Anyway, leave the robes here. You can borrow jeans and a jumper from me. You don’t want to miss a ride on the back of that bike; it really is genius.”

Draco looked at Ron’s broader shoulders and thicker thighs. “I have jeans on under the robes; I’ll just need a jumper.”

“And a jacket,” Harry added.

“Be right back.” Ron winked at him and disappeared out through the side garage door.

He turned back to find Potter pulling the long, heavy black robes off over his head, then shrinking them and shoving them into a black leather saddle bag strapped to the frame of the bike. He unbuttoned the fitted tunic, taking it off to reveal a white t-shirt. Shrinking the tunic as well, he exchanged one small set of clothing for another. Resizing a black jumper, he pulled it on over his head, then down over his waist. 

Watching him change his clothes made butterflies take flight in Draco’s midsection. Just seeing the muscles under the t-shirt shift reminded Draco had long it had been since he touched another man. And if the only way to ride with Harry was to sit behind him on the long narrow seat, his groin against Harry’s arse… Just the thought sent blood in a rush to his crotch, and he took several slow, deep breaths to keep from growing hard standing there. He turned his back and pretended to study the shelves on the garage walls, thinking of McGonagall in tartan knickers, or Pansy’s tits, anything to keep his misbehaving cock from tenting his dress slacks. 

Just as he’d about got hold of himself, Weasley returned with a dark blue jumper and a short Sherpa lined denim jacket. It was all too large on his slender frame, but Draco assumed he’d be warm. It felt weird to hand his robes off to Ronald, and he turned back to the bike to find Harry holding out a black helmet, an expectant look on his face. Draco was certain his hair would be a disaster on the other end but decided better safe than sorry. It was heavier than his bike helmet but could probably stand up to a good deal more abuse, if necessary. 

He thought Harry might be the only person on earth who didn’t look ridiculous in the WWI style helmet. He strapped it under his square chin, then straddled the bike seat, grabbed onto the handle bars, and kick started the heavy motor. To Draco’s surprise, it started immediately with a roar, then settled into a rough, even purr. Harry turned the bike and walked it out of the garage. 

He looked up at Draco, one brow arched in challenge. “You ready?”

It had snowed while they were all inside, and Draco’s breath created a cloud before his face as he exhaled. 

“As I’ll ever be,” he muttered, but he accepted Harry’s unspoken dare, tossing his leg over the seat and settling behind Harry. 

It was every bit the brilliant torture Draco had thought it would be, only more so. The purr of the big engine made the seat vibrate against his balls, and he swallowed a groan as he settled against Harry, his cock lining up with the crack in his muscled arse. Harry grinned at him over his shoulder, and his chin brushed Draco’s cheek. “Hang on,” he shouted over the Harley’s roar, and shouted something to Ron before accelerating out of the drive onto the snowy country lane. Draco lurched forward and wrapped his arms around Harry’s slender waist; it was that, or wind up on his arse in the middle of the street. The muscles in Harry’s back seemed to line up perfectly with Draco’s chest and belly, and he rested his chin on Harry’s shoulder as he sped away. 

It was snowing lightly, and they entered a tunnel not far from Ron and Hermione’s house, emerging on the other end to fallow, wide open fields as the last few flakes drifted silently to the ground. The sound of the bike echoed over the deserted farmland, and Harry opened the throttle as they sped into the night. When the bike’s wheels lifted from the road and Harry steered it to soar into the dark night sky, Draco’s heart lifted with it, joy racing through his veins.


	22. Time for you to go home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: 

It had been a few weeks since Harry had last been on the bike, and he hadn’t ridden in tandem with anyone since before he and Ginny split. He’d tried to get Hermione to go up with him; he grinned every time he recalled that she’d told him it would be a cold day in hell. And besides, having Hermione behind him might have been more entertaining, because he knew he could scare the living shit out of her without much trouble. He _knew_ it wouldn’t feel as brilliant as Draco did.

Draco was deceptively muscled; he looked thin and willowy, but there was strength in his arms and in the thighs on either side of Harry’s hips. When he’d scooted forward and his hips cradled Harry’s arse, it was all he could do not to groan out loud, it felt so brilliant. And even though Draco didn’t move against him in a single way, there was no mistaking the hardness Harry felt pressing against him. He glanced down and saw the long, pale fingers curled in his jacket at his waist and relished the warmth against his back. His heart felt as light as the snowflakes that drifted around them to fall into the darkness below. They might have been the only two people in the world, flying through the snowy night.

Draco shouted something above the sound of the bike’s engine, and Harry held up his hand in a ‘wait a second’ gesture. He took his wand from the sleeve stitched into the sleeve of the leather jacket, and cast a spell. Instantly, the motor went silent. He felt Draco stiffen against him.

“Is that safe?”

Harry grinned without turning. “Perfectly. We don’t need the motor to fly. It just adds to the upward thrust.”

“The upward… fine. I’ll take your word for it. You do know where I live?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, I do. Why?”

“Because I have the distinct impression we aren’t headed toward London.”

“I thought we’d make a side trip, if that’s all right with you?”

He could almost feel Draco pondering. Finally, he nodded, his jaw brushing Harry’s ear. “Okay. As long as we aren’t too late; I need to work for a living, you know.”

Harry didn’t remind Draco that should he so desire, he could be the new potions professor at Hogwarts, beginning with the new term in January. There was time for that. He just hoped this detour he was taking wasn’t a huge mistake.

While the small celebration had been in full swing, Harry had retired to Ron’s home office to have a chat with Kingsley through the Floo. The Auror’s were hard at work and had narrowed the pool of possible suspects in the memory tampering to a select few, but that wasn’t what Harry wanted to discuss. Hermione had done some research during the days since the strange partnership between Harry, Hermione and Draco had begun, and reminded Harry yet again how brilliant she was. Kingsley hadn’t been best thrilled about the subject matter, but Harry had at least some of the answers he’d sought. Now he wondered what to do with them, but keeping them to himself wasn’t an option.

There were just some things Draco deserved to know, the sooner the better. 

__

_NoelNoelNoel_

The flight on the back of the charmed motor bike was, well, there was no other term for it; it was _magical_. More than once Draco had to blink back tears of wonder that he was experiencing anything so charmed. He’d resigned himself to a life without magic, convinced himself that as long as he had Scorpius, and his flat, and his job, that his life was worth living. But now, oh Gods, now – Harry’s magic shivered around him, powerful and intoxicating, raising gooseflesh on his skin and sending chills down his spine. He was reminded there was wonder in the world, and once he’d lived in the midst of it, and taken it for granted. Elation made his heart race each time he recalled Kingsley’s words; _“In amendment 516a I further propose that Draco Abraxas Malfoy’s sentence be overturned, and that his re-admittance to the wizarding world, including all rights and privileges as a wizard, be restored, and that any limitations on his performance of magic be lifted.”_

He could do magic again. He could do magic, and exultation flowed through his bloodstream in concert with the wine he’d drunk. He couldn’t remember being giddier in his life. Maybe when he’d got his first broom, but he doubted it. He hugged Harry and laid his cheek against his shoulder, not even caring that he was probably revealing more through the embrace than he intended. He closed his eyes, his fingers gripping the soft leather of Harry’s jacket.

Draco opened his eyes again when he began to feel the snowfall heavier against his nose and chin, the only parts of his face really left exposed beneath the helmet. He’d thought their altitude had diminished, and even through the snow he could see the wide expanse of snow covered fields. There was the rise of a hill, a single lane leading to the top, and Draco straightened when the uneven boulders of Stonehenge, glowing slightly with mystic light as they did to almost all with magical blood, came into view.

He gripped Harry’s bicep, hard. “We’re in Wiltshire.”

Harry hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you as soon as we’re on the ground.”

Draco’s breath grew short; they weren’t only in Wiltshire. The Manor had been built where it was because of its proximity to Stonehenge. The first stones of the ancient part of the Manor House, the dungeon, had been laid in the eleventh century, when the Malefoy family had been rewarded by William the Conqueror for their part in overtaking Saxon England. Half of the invading force had been of magical descent, including William, and these lands were considered especially favored. Just over the next rise, the turrets of the house came into view.

Draco didn’t know what he’d expected to feel after so long, but the rush of pain took him by surprise.

“Why are we here?” he gasped. “Why would you do this?”

Harry didn’t answer, just brought the bike to a graceful landing on the narrow country road. He turned off onto the drive, and far in the distance Draco could see the lights of the Manor, gleaming through the fall of snow. Harry slowed and pulled the bike up to the main gates, stopping and idling. He withdrew his wand once again and waved it, and the area around the gates lit up as if it were the middle of the day.

“What are you doing?” Draco gasped. “There’s a village…”

“The grounds and the house are still warded,” Harry said gently. “No one can see them.”

Draco stared at the white decked wreaths attached to the gates, the wrought iron flocked with more of the heavy, thick country snow. The brick gateposts had what looked like funerary urns on top with white caps that might have been made of meringue, and a delicate, complicated monogram with a prominent ‘M’ graced the top of the gates. Draco had always hated the fussy thing, but his father had explained it was in the _“French style”_ , which was appropriate for the family geneaology. Draco’s mother had rolled his eyes behind Lucius’s back, and Draco had bit back a giggle, which was something of an accomplishment for a six year old. Beyond the gates branches of trees stripped bare for winter hung down over the narrow lane that led to the house far in the distance, and Draco stared, his eyes aching with unshed tears. 

“Why would you do this?” he said, his throat aching, scrambling off of the bike. For the first time in an hour, he didn’t desire Potter; not at all. “I thought we were… I thought things were…” 

“Draco.” 

Harry put the bike into park and set the kick stand, lifting his leg gracefully over the seat and straightening. 

“There’s a reason, I swear.”

“What possible reason could you –“

“It’s yours.”

“What?” Draco didn’t understand. Harry might as well have been speaking Sudanese. 

“The house. The grounds. The other Malfoy properties.”

Draco felt as if the snow around him was slipping in through his pores and flowing through his bloodstream. He went cold to his bones. “That isn’t possible. It was taken for – “

“Reparations, yes,” Harry said. “But that was your father’s sentence. Not yours.”

Draco shook his head slowly. “I don’t understand. I heard the house had been sold.”

“That’s what the Ministry wanted people to believe, so that vandals wouldn’t break in, freaks who wanted to see where Voldemort lived. But there are parts of the house they’ve never been able to access because of charms and curses. They couldn’t sell a house that couldn’t be cleared, because…”

“None of them had Malfoy blood,” Draco murmured, finally remembering the Malfoy wards. 

“Exactly.” 

They stared at one another. 

“The Ministry uses the public parts,” Harry went on. “Mostly for receptions and the like. But no one will stay there. They say it’s haunted.” 

“It is,” Draco shrugged. “Aren’t most magical residences?”

“They say it’s haunted by Voldemort.”

Draco looked back at the house. “Not possible. In the end, he was really just a fraud, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” Harry agreed firmly. “But they still haven’t been able to get into the family parts of the house since the last of you walked out.”

“But they took everything that wasn’t nailed down,” Draco turned to him. “I saw them do it.”

Harry shrugged ruefully. “I gather they put it back, in hopes it would clear the wards.”

“But it didn’t,” Draco supplied. Harry shook his head. 

One startled, slightly hysterical giggle escaped Draco’s mouth, and he clapped his hand over it. After a moment, he turned and stared back at the massive house in the distance. 

“Why don’t they just ask me to lower the wards?” Draco asked. 

“I gather they would have,” Harry answered. “If Hermione hadn’t researched what the decision today could mean for you.”

“When did she have time?” Draco asked in wonder.

Harry snorted. “The rest of us need sleep.”

Draco walked closer to the gates, lifting his hands and wrapping his fingers around the icy bars.

“Apparently,” Harry said, “there was precedence from an earlier war; your father earned the punishment, but now that you’ve been cleared, they can’t attach penalties to your inheritance. They could take the money, but not the property.”

“That makes no sense,” Draco muttered.

“That’s the ministry.”

Draco pulled off the motorcycle helmet, shivering a bit in the cold as he held it, forgotten, in his hand. The house looked imposing, beautiful but remote, more like a museum he once visited than a house he’d lived in. Distantly, he felt a warming charm pass over him and he said a muttered ‘thank you’. 

He didn’t know how long he stood there, the snow falling all around the bubble of warmth, staring at the lit panes of glass in the windows, diamonds of light as cold and remote as the gem stones they resembled. 

“I don’t know what to say,” he said finally.

He felt Harry come up beside him, and a strong arm circled his shoulders. “You don’t have to say or do anything right now. I just felt it was important that you know. When I first found out – about my parents.” Harry paused and Draco turned to look at him. His face was pensive. “My inheritance was all I had from them.” He turned his head, and his eyes looked very green in the magical light. “It mattered.”

Draco studied Harry’s face.

“You’re right; it does.” Without pausing for thought, Draco lifted his hand and cupped Harry’s jaw, his thumb gently following the curve of his lower lip. After a moment he leaned forward, his eyes watchful, and covered Harry’s mouth with his.

Harry’s mouth softened beneath his, and one of his hands came out, curling around Draco’s waist and curling in the denim jacket. Their lips opened and tongues touched fleetingly, then Draco pulled back just enough to settle his forehead against Harry’s. 

“Thank you, for telling me,” Draco whispered.

“I hope it was the right thing.” Harry reached up and touched his face.

Draco covered Harry’s hand with his. “It was.”


	23. Friends to Keep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: 

Draco walked from the tube stop the next morning, his hands in the pockets of his short heavy coat, a knit hat pulled down over his ears and forehead. It was snowing lightly, and passing cars made a soft shushing sound as they passed on the wet pavement. 

Draco had wakened feeling very strange that morning. Harry had brought him to his front door, kissing him gently good night, a soft, undemanding kiss that Draco both appreciated, and that left him wanting more. Which was perhaps the best kind of kiss, he mused later after a good wank in a hot shower and a cup of tea spiked with brandy. He was dressed in his pyjama pants and a t-shirt, curled under his afghan, tucked in the corner of his ratty sofa. The feeling had just started to come back into his feet; funny how he’d not noticed the cold while snuggled up to Harry Potter’s back on the motorcycle. 

Even the next morning, the night before had an odd, surreal quality to it. He’d resigned himself to so many things over the course of the last twenty years; he was one of the working poor, he was no longer a wizard, he owned – well, the clothes on his back and not much else, actually. Now, after one afternoon everything was turned on its head. He might not have a bunch of cash, but he couldn’t be called poor. His wand had hummed happily in his hand when he’d taken it out of the drawer in his nightstand. He’d cast a gentle warming charm that over-reached and turned his bedroom into a near sauna, but it worked. And he owned the Manor, the one thing he’d grieved perhaps more than any other; the family home, held by generation upon generation of Malfoy, was once again his. 

And he had absolutely no idea what the fuck to do with it.

He wanted it for Scorpius, of course. The boy hadn’t even been inside the house, not once in his life. Draco wasn’t sure he wanted to live there again, but he wanted his son to have options. And speaking of options – Draco sighed. What did he do now? He could perform magic, there was no need for him to hide away in the Muggle world. He’d called Pansy on his mobile, the one he rarely used and didn’t remember where it was often enough to keep it charged. But he’d found it, plugged it in, and called her. He’d told her about his afternoon to deepening silence from the other end, and abruptly realized how insensitive he was being.

“Oh, Gods, Pans, I’m being a self-centered prick, aren’t I?”

He heard her sniff, and felt worse. 

“Oh, you fucking pillock,” she finally managed. “This is brilliant, Draco. Bloody _brilliant_!”

“Yeah?” he asked hopefully.

“Yeah, you idiot. For Merlin’s sakes, Draco! You’re a wizard again! Have you tried any magic yet?”

“Just a warming charm,” Draco admitted. “To be honest, I’m a bit afraid to try much else, lest I blow a hole in a wall because it’s been so long.”

She laughed, and he was relieved that she sounded much brighter.

“So, are you going to take the job at Hogwarts?”

Draco frowned, picking at a loose thread on the ugly blanket. “I don’t know, Pans. I have to talk to Scorpius first.”

“Scorpius is the one who told you about it in the first place.”

“I know. But it’s one thing to consider having your father around, teaching one of your NEWT courses, and another to actually have him in your business.”

She scoffed. “Don’t be stupid. You aren’t Lucius, and Scorpius is much smarter than we were.”

“Thank god for that,” Draco said with feeling. He couldn’t imagine his son doing any of the stupid things he’d done. But if someone threatened Draco, Scorpius might. Thank God Harry had ended that sort of risk. And hopefully, Draco was wiser now than he had been.

“Hello, earth to Draco,” Pansy said sharply, and Draco realized his mind had been thousands of miles away, and she’d still been talking to him. 

“I’m sorry, Pans.”

“Where were you?” she asked, then laughed, a smoke roughened sound. “Oh, let me guess. You were musing on the hot headmaster. And he is hot, goddamn him.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, and she made a wry, knowing sound.

“Uh-huh, just what I thought. So, has he kissed you yet?”

“None of your business.” His tone sounded like a librarian even to him, and Pansy crowed. 

“He has! So, does the man know what to do with his tongue? Has he had his hand on your cock, yet? Gone on his knees to blow you? If he doesn’t offer to do it first, don’t you be hitting your knees. I know you love prick, but do make him work for it.”

“Oh, shut it, you cow!”

The following conversation had lasted longer, and been more gleeful than any they’d had in a long time.

Now he pushed in through the front door of Frombley’s Family Pharmacy, wondering just what the devil he was going to tell Mr Frombley when he had absolutely no idea what he was going to do, himself.

“Daddy, Draco’s here!” 

The shrill voice caused Draco to jump, and he rubbed his hand over where his heart had tried to jump out of his chest. Megan, who was setting out party goods for New Years, gave him a look that was part apology and part disappointment. 

“Draco, my boy!” Mr Frombley appeared in the doorway to the work room, looking surprised to see him. “What are you doing here?”

Draco frowned. “I’m scheduled to work this morning, Mr Frombley,” he answered. 

“Oh, are you staying??” Megan did everything but jump up and down in place like a toddler, and Frombley gave her a quelling look. 

“Meggie, please.” 

She frowned, but stopped.

“Come into the office, Draco.” Frombley pushed open the door, holding it until Draco had passed through in front of him, then closing it softly. He led the way into his office, and Draco couldn’t help but wonder what this was all about. Until he took the offered chair in front of the desk, and he saw a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ on the blotter.

_**MALFOY HEIR CLEARED**_ the bold-faced headline screamed. _Potter and Granger-Weasley testify to wartime heroics_. There was a magical picture of the three of them, exchanging relieved smiles while lightbulbs flashed and the short video played on a loop over and over again. Draco thought he looked pale as a ghost, Hermione very professional in her Healer’s robes, and Harry… well, Harry.

Draco grimaced. “If I thought you’d see that before I had a chance to speak to you, I’d have called you last night.”

Frombley waved away Draco’s words. “Don’t be silly. This is thrilling, my boy, simply thrilling! You are going to take the teaching job at Hogwarts, aren’t you?”

Draco’s eyes widened, and he looked down at the paper. “Is all of that in there?”

“I’ve always found your wizarding paper far more informative that any of the Muggle rags.”

“Informative, invasive,” Draco said wryly, and Frombley giggled. It was incongruous sound. 

“You do want the job, don’t you?”

“I have a job, sir,” Draco replied. Frombley gave him a rueful look. 

“Draco, surely you don’t think I would begrudge you this opportunity.”

“No,” Draco said. “I know you wouldn’t. I’m just not certain…”

“You’re nervous, of course,” the old man said kindly. “This must seem like something of a miracle, after all this time. But Draco, this is an opportunity for you to reclaim your birthright; I know how my brother felt; as much as he loved me, he was always a wizard first. And Hogwarts was always his home.”

Draco looked down at his hands twisting in his lap, his throat thick. “I’d have to sit my NEWT’s before I could teach.”

Frombley pooh-poohed. “Son, remember; I’ve seen your scores at UNI. I’d wager you could sit it today without an issue.”

“That’s very kind of you, sir.”

“Not kind; merely honest. And forgive me if I’m over-stepping but didn’t I sense something… promising between you and Mr Potter?”

Draco felt his face heat. “Possibly.” He looked up to find Frombley studying him over the top of his reading glasses, his expression amused. Draco couldn’t help his small, responding smile. “I think so, yes.”

“Well, then unless you plan to put up a bit of a fight, I think you’ll be returning to Hogwarts to teach. Mr Potter strikes me as someone who usually gets what he wants.”

“That’s been my experience,” Draco agreed wryly.

“Well, then please don’t make me sack you,” Frombley said. “I doubt it would make much difference to your new employer, but it would look terrible on that stellar resume of yours.” He offered his hand over the desk. “It’s been a pleasure, young man. Replacing you is going to be very difficult.”

Draco hesitated only a moment longer, then shook Mr. Frombley’s hand.

He was walking a shell-shocked Draco towards the front door when they passed a pile of boxes near a holiday display. The top box was open, and lying on some crinkled newsprint was a blown glass stag. It was about the size of his hand when Draco picked it up, elegant in every detail, its head held high and its eight-point rack catching the overhead lighting. Within the glass over each of the four legs and over the proud head was a frosting of gold.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Frombley said. “So nice of the supplier to get them to us two days before Christmas Eve. I doubt we’ll sell a tenth of them.”

“I’ll buy one,” Draco said impulsively. He knew about Harry’s Patronus, and perhaps it was a silly whim, but he thought the man would like it. 

“You won’t,” Frombley said, sounding insulted. He took the deer from Draco’s hands and turned, handing it off to Megan. “Wrap this up for Draco, would you, sweetheart?”

She nodded, perhaps as subdued as he’d ever seen her.

“I will come to visit, Megan,” Draco promised softly. “And I’ll bring Scorpius with me.”

Her smile was like the sun coming out from behind clouds, and Mr Frombley squeezed his upper arm as Megan wrapped up the figurine and looked for a box.

“That was kind,” he murmured softly.

“If it was, it’s because of what I’ve learned from you.”

Frombley blinked quickly, and Draco found he had to do the same.

__

_NoelNoelNoel_

Harry was working on the NEWT’s schedule for the seventh years for when they returned from hols when he heard the Floo ring from his sitting room. Finishing off the sentence he’d been writing, he rose from his desk and pushed back the chair, walking in to face the fireplace.

“Ron,” he said in surprise. “Come on through.”

He could see the subdued expression on his friend's face, and when Hermione came through behind him, her own expression grim, alarm roared through his chest.

“What’s happened? Is it one of the kids?”

Al, James and Lily planned to play a pickup game of Quidditch behind the Burrow with Teddy, Scorpius and one of their friends. Harry could imagine one of the reckless idiots crumbled on the ground at the base of a tree. Or in the pond.

Hermione gave him a caustic look. “If one of the kids was hurt, do you think I’d be here and not with them?”

Relief made his knees weak, and he sat down hard on the sofa. “No, of course not.” He ran one hand through his hair, then looked up at his friends again. “So, if not the kids, then… what?”

Ron sighed, propping his hands on his hips. “We know who cast the memory charms on you, Hermione and Malfoy.”

Studying their unhappy faces made Harry’s heart sink.


	24. An Unspeakable Betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: 

Harry shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his robe as he and Hermione walked down the lane that led through Hogsmeade. It was cold, again. Still. By this point in December in the northern highlands of Scotland, it felt as if it was always cold, and he scowled at the slushy ground, careful to avoid the icy spots. The last thing he needed this afternoon was to fall on his arse in the middle of the wizarding shopping area. No doubt he’d be on the front page of the _Prophet_ again tomorrow if he did.

“I know you’re angry, Harry,” Hermione said, taking careful step for step with him, clinging to his arm. She’d cast waterproof charms on their shoes, and he was grateful for it.

“You’re damned right I’m angry. What the fuck was he even thinking? He had no right…”

“He _knows_ , Harry. Do you honestly think I didn’t tear a strip off of him when his name came up? And I’ve never seen Arthur so livid.”

Harry sighed. “I don’t want if to cause a rift in the family.”

“Not our doing if there is, Harry. Molly and Arthur are going to have to decide what to do with it.”

“Christmas will be awful.” Harry thought of the usual merry holidays, and he felt sick to his stomach.

She squeezed his bicep. “Again, not our fault.”

“But he’d just begun to make amends, and with Penelope pregnant…” Harry cursed explosively, and some shoppers ahead of them turned to give him a quelling look.

“I can see it now,” she teased. “Hogwarts Headmaster scandalizes holiday shoppers with potty mouth, story on page five.”

“Har har,” he responded drily. 

They came even with the Three Broomsticks, and Hermione tugged on his sleeve. “Buy me a drink.”

“Sure.”

They went into the pub, and found it surprisingly uncrowded for an early afternoon during hols. Hermione went to sit at a table near a window and Harry went to the bar. Rosmerta was standing behind the bar, and she dipped up two hot mulled ciders before he even opened his mouth.

“Thanks, Rosie,” Harry said, digging the correct number of galleons out of a deep robe pocket. 

“Both of you are looking grim,” she said, pushing the tankards across the bar. 

“Family issue,” Harry answered. She grimaced. 

“Oh, those are the worst. Particularly during the holidays. Well, here’s hoping you can straighten it out before Wednesday. In my experience, those Weasley boys tussle as much or more than anyone, but they remember the important things when it matters.”

He saluted her with one of the mugs. “Here’s hoping.” There was no point in telling her she was wrong; she wasn’t.

He placed Hermione’s mug in front of her and slipped onto the bench across. “Okay,” he said once he’d taken a sip. “Details.”

She sighed. “You won’t be happy.”

Harry gave her a level look. “That goes without saying.”

She sipped her cider, then set it aside. “Okay, I don’t have to tell you what was going on. Ron and I were leaving for Australia, and we weren’t happy about it, but we had to leave you here alone.”

“I wasn’t alone, Hermione,” he muttered. 

“Oh, I know. But it had just been the three of us, for almost a year, and we felt as if we were abandoning you. Then there were all of the funerals and memorial services…”

Harry nodded. 

“The trials were set to start right after we left, and you were so…alone. One evening we were at the Burrow, and everyone was in bed but you and Ron. You were talking about the Malfoy’s, and what you should do because of him not identifying us that night at the Manor. You were also torn about Narcissa, and the fact she’d lied to save you.”

“She lied to save Draco,” Harry corrected gently. “Once you have kids, the reasoning is more understandable.”

“Absolutely,” she agreed. “Anyway, Percy was on his way to the loo and he over-heard you, and apparently you were very – emotional.”

“I remember that.” Harry rubbed his hand over his face. “I was crying,” he admitted softly. “I’d just come out to you and Ron, and he asked me if I had a thing for Malfoy.”

She reached across the table and took his hand, linking their fingers. “He’s been there pretty much forever, hasn’t he?”

Harry nodded. “I admitted I thought – I might. Or I could.”

“And that’s what Percy heard. It was absolutely none of his business, of course, but when has that ever stopped him? The magic was advanced; I should have immediately thought of an Unspeakable. But that was the beauty of this, wasn’t it? By casting the spells, he could make us forget what he wanted us to.”

“Did he say _why_ , though?”

Hermione ran her thumb over the back of his hand. “He says he was honestly thinking of all of us. That you’d been through enough trauma, and coming out as gay would have just made everything worse. That attaching yourself to Malfoy would cause such an uproar you would have only been more traumatized. He wasn’t responsible for the invitation from Ilvermorny, but it was certainly timely.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Did he say why he only hexed you and me and Draco, and not Ron?”

“He said he didn’t feel it was necessary. Ron was already so devastated over losing Fred he didn’t think Draco’s sentence was going to be a priority for him. We went to Australia; you went to America. He hexed me because he knew I would wonder about Draco when we got back, but he wasn’t wrong about Ron.” 

Harry ran his free hand roughly through his hair. “I’d never wish my kids away, but I wish it hadn’t been necessary for Ginny to be hurt.”

“Oh, don’t kid yourself,” Hermione said firmly. “I love Ginny, but she had her heart set on being Mrs Harry Potter, and don’t think she didn’t tell Percy that.”

“That’s pretty cynical, Hermione.”

“It’s also true,” she said brusquely. “Percy thought he was doing the right thing, all around. In his mind, spelling your memories away was of benefit to you and Ginny, to me so I could concentrate on finding my parents, and he really didn’t believe the Malfoy’s were entitled to any special consideration.”

“How did he even get to Malfoy?”

“As an Unspeakable in training, he was part of the special security force for all of the prisoners. It didn’t take much to get himself assigned to Draco, at least. He must’ve known Narcissa would never say anything about her part in helping you defeat Voldemort; she knew those people, and knew how they’d retaliate.”

“The whole thing is so fucking convoluted.” Harry met her gaze. “Who figured it out?”

She smiled. “The brother he didn’t think would notice,” she said. “Percy has always underestimated Ron.”

“He won’t do that again.”

“He won’t have the chance. He’s being disciplined by his department, whatever that means. He ought to be worried about his mother. She’s going to be livid when she hears about this. And Molly is scarier than Kingsley.”

“That is true,” Harry agreed. He sighed. “Are we still spending Christmas at the Burrow?”

“Oh, yes.” Hermione grinned. “It would take more than a few memory charms for Molly not to do her rib roast on Christmas day. Accompanied by Celestina on the wireless.”

“Oh, joy,” Harry groaned.

She squeezed his hand. “At least you get a couple of weeks before classes start again.” She looked cagey. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from the new Potions Professor.”

“Don’t jinx it. He hasn’t officially accepted the position yet.”

She gave him a slow grin. “He will.”

Hermione returned to the hospital once they’d finished their drinks, and Harry meandered slowly through the Christmas market that had sprung up along Hogsmeade’s main thoroughfare. He still felt a bit hollowed out. He and Percy had never been as close as he was with the other brothers, but he was still family. 

He was passing a booth with blown glass animals lined up along a shelf, and something caught his eye. He stopped, taking a step forward. 

“See something you like, Headmaster?”

Harry recognized the wizened face of the little witch, and she gave him a toothless smile. 

“Yeah,” he answered. “Could I see that dragon, please?”

She reached out an arthritic hand, passing it to him carefully. “Pretty little thing, isn’t it?”

“Very,” he agreed, turning it over in his hand. 

The dragon was about the size of his hand, formed from a beautiful ‘s’ curve, attached to an undulating tail. Graceful spikes grew from his back, he had a spur on the end of his tail, and three toed claws on each of his four feet. One of the front feet held a multi-surfaced translucent orb, horns grew from his head, and he had scales imprinted the length of his graceful body. There was a gold glow over the faintly lavender glass, and Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen anything as beautiful in his life. 

“I’ll take this,” Harry said, handing it back to her. She gave him a rusty little laugh as she wrapped it in paper and slipped it into a box. 

“It’ll make a nice present,” she said with a sly smile, “for a sweetheart.”

Harry didn’t answer, but she laughed when his face heated

_NoelNoelNoel_

Draco _Apparated_ into Hogsmeade, lifting the cowl of his cape up over his hair. It wasn’t that he was afraid; well, not much. His reversal of fortunes had been all over the _Prophet_ , and he doubted anyone would challenge his right to be there. But he didn’t want to be answering questions this afternoon; he wanted to get reacquainted with Hogsmeade and the castle without feeling like he was on display. Fortunately, the crowd was small, probably due to the persistent snowfall and the kids being home for hols, and he was able to move around the edges of the small Christmas market unnoticed. The walk from the edge of town to the castle gates brought a lump to his throat; it was so much a part of his childhood. When he finally saw the castle, clinging to the edge of the mountain cliff and surrounded on one side by the snow shrouded dark forest, he let the tears he’d been fighting for two days fill his eyes and slip down his face.

After a few minutes, he scrubbed at his face with his sleeve, then launched his _Patronus_ through the gate's bars. The white arctic fox scampered on the snow, pausing.

“Ask the Headmaster if I can see him.”

The white animal gave him a foxy grin, then turned and dashed across the wide lawn.

_NoelNoelNoel_

Harry sat in his quarters, his feet on his coffee table, and his boots side by side on the hearth. There had been a sliced apple and a chunk of cheddar cheese on a plate, sitting in the middle of the low table under a statis charm when he returned to his room. Grateful for the snack and suddenly ravenous, Harry had put the plate on his lap and just tucked in when a white Arctic fox slipped down the chimney and into his room. He turned and gave Harry a wide foxy grin, all canines, flashing light eyes and thick wagging tail, and Harry smiled at him.

“Hello,” Harry said. “Can I help you?”

“Mr Draco Malfoy requests an audience with the Headmaster,” the little animal said in Draco’s smooth, upper crust voice. Harry quickly set the plate aside. 

“Tell Mr Draco Malfoy his audience is approved.” Harry got up off of the couch, crossing to his boots. “Is he at the main gates?” He sat on the coffee table and yanked on first one boot, then the other. 

“He is. And he’d appreciate it if you’d hurry; it’s _snowing_.”

Harry laughed. “God forbid.” He yanked at his laces, tying the boots neatly, then standing and grabbing for his thick outer robes. Moments later, he was _Apparating_ down to just inside the main doors.

No one was supposed to be able to _Apparate_ inside of the castle, but Harry recalled Dumbledore saying that ‘there were benefits to being _him_ ’. There were actually benefits to being Headmaster; the restrictions didn’t apply to anyone holding the title. And actually, he thought the castle liked him; he’d been Apparating around during the battle of Hogwarts at will. He pulled open the doors and walked out into the snow. 

Harry waved his wand as he approached the large gates, seeing the tall slender figure in a full length cape standing in the falling snow. They swung open silently and the two men stood, one on each side of the entrance to the Hogwarts grounds, staring.

Draco’s eyes were the same silvery color as his patronus’s, and Harry stepped closer.

“A fox,” he said.

Draco nodded. “I imagine you expected a ferret?” he asked dryly. Harry smiled. 

“Actually, I’d never thought about it.” That wasn’t true, but Draco didn’t need to know that. “He’s cute. He also suits you.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “He’s a fierce hunter.”

“I imagine he is.” Harry grinned at him. “Why do I feel like I’m being hunted now?”

“Because you are.” Draco stalked closer to him. 

“I imagine the Ministry has been in touch, about – ” Harry let the sentence die. 

“Yes. And I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk at all.”

Harry felt heat fill his body, centering in his groin. “You don’t.”

Draco shook his head, moving toward him without hesitation, his boots moving silently in the light, newly fallen snow. 

“So what do you want to do?” Harry asked, sounding hoarse as the lithe figure came to him. 

“This.” 

Draco caught a handful of Harry’s thick hair, pulling his head back and opening his mouth over Harry’s, sliding his tongue into his mouth. 

Harry groaned, his hands clutching Draco’s hips. He pulled him in until they were pressed together from shoulders to knees, legs entwined. “Mine?” he asked. Draco nodded as their lips met again, and they disappeared with a ‘pop’.


	25. The Sinner Redeemed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: 

_Harry groaned, his hands clutching Draco’s hips. He pulled him in until they were pressed together from shoulders to knees, legs entwined. “Mine?” he asked. Draco nodded as their lips met again, and they disappeared with a ‘pop’._

Harry’s aim had improved dramatically over the years, but he hadn’t ever Apparated while kissing someone before, so he thought he could be forgiven for bringing them to the sitting room rather than the bedroom. Once they were standing in his warm quarters, he thought maybe it was better this way; if he had somehow misunderstood Draco’s intention out by the gates, there wouldn’t be any pressure or embarrassment. When Draco’s hand instantly went down to his arse and squeezed, Harry was pretty certain he hadn’t misunderstood anything. 

Getting each other out of their clothes while keeping their lips fused seemed to be the order of business and it was harder than Harry thought it would be. He unfastened the velvet cape from and pushed it from Draco’s shoulders, letting it pool on the floor around his feet. Beneath it he wore jeans, an off white cable knit jumper and black leather boots that still had snow clinging to them. As Draco began to bunch up the heavy fabric of Harry’s robes, intent on pulling them off over his head, Harry slid his hands up under Draco’s jumper, his palms sliding over smooth, warm skin. 

They actually did have to break apart momentarily for Harry’s robes to be pulled off, and Draco immediately went for the buttons down the front of Harry’s shirt, yanking the hem from his jeans. Harry leaned forward and latched onto Draco’s throat, and Draco made a sound of frustration.

“Can’t see,” he growled, pushed Harry back and going back at the buttons. 

“Don’t care,” Harry retorted, bending at the hips, his lips opening over one of Draco’s dusky pink nipples. He swirled his tongue around the pebbling skin, and Draco sank his fingers into Harry’s hair, holding his mouth in place. 

“Christ,” Draco cursed, his long back arching. He dropped the hand not in Harry’s hair to the front of Harry’s jeans and palmed his erection through the denim. 

“Yeah,” Harry muttered, “that.” He pressed his hips forward, rolling into Draco’s touch, and Draco followed the plump curve of Harry’s cock where it was trapped by his jeans against his thigh. Draco squeezed him, finding the head of his prick and rolling it between his fingers. 

“Gods, Potter,” he whimpered when Harry tugged on Draco’s nipple with his teeth, “hung, much?”

Harry laughed breathlessly, flicking the tip of his tongue over Draco’s nipple before pulling back. 

“You complaining?” 

“Just stating the obvious.” 

Draco’s fingers went to work on Harry’s zip and flies, and moments later his jeans were gaping and slipping over his narrow hips. Harry gasped when Draco slid smoothly to his knees, pulling his y-fronts down along with the jeans. Harry’s cock popped free, curving up and pointing directly at Draco’s mouth. 

“So cooperative,” Draco teased. Harry had a pithy response that completely vanished from his head when Draco licked the head of his cock, wrapping his tongue around it, then taking almost all of Harry in one smooth movement. Harry felt the head of his prick brush the back of Draco’s throat, and he pulled off again slowly. “That’s going to take some practice,” Draco admitted, gripping Harry’s length in his fist and pumping him slowly. 

“Practice is good,” Harry said breathlessly, and Draco looked up at him with a smile. Harry smoothed Draco’s mussed hair back from his face. “Gods, you look good on your knees.” 

“And you look good with your prick out and hard.” Draco leaned forward, slowly opening his mouth over the heavy muscle just above Harry’s hip bone, sucking hard. 

“Fuck,” Harry breathed, a shudder running the length of his spine. 

“That’s one option.” Draco nibbled the taut skin over Harry’s hip bone. 

“I’m ready to come just from what you’re doing; there’s no way I’d last long enough for you to get inside me.”

Draco stilled, looking up into his eyes. “You’d let me fuck you?”

Harry’s knees began to tremble. “Draco, I’d beg you to fuck me.”

The slow grin that pulled at Draco’s lips was wickedness itself. “That won’t be necessary. Bed?”

Harry grabbed Draco’s hand and yanked him to his feet, stepping out of his jeans and pants as he pulled him into the bedroom. They stripped out of the rest of their clothes as they went, and Harry laid shamelessly on his back in the middle of his bed as Draco crawled up the bed over him. His prick was hard, long and slender like the rest of him, curving toward his stomach and brushing just beneath his navel. Harry reached out and took him in his hand. 

“This is beautiful,” he said, moving his hand up toward the tip, taking a pearly drop of pre-come on his thumb and then lifting it to his mouth. Draco watched him avidly as he licked it off. He ran his hand down Harry’s hard stomach.

“So is this. Lube?” 

“Middle drawer of the bedside.” 

Draco bent to open and search through the drawer, and Harry stroked the long curve of his flank. “You’re so bloody beautiful,” he said reverently. 

Draco made a sound of satisfaction and sat back up, a small clear bottle with a pump top in his hand. He read the label. “I see you aren’t cheap,” he teased. 

“Not when it’s going up my arse, no,” Harry said wryly. 

“You like toys?”

“I like my prostate.”

Draco laughed, and Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever heard it before. It went from the base of his tail bone straight to his cock. “Good to know,” Draco said, a smile lingering. “You’ll be glad to know I know exactly where the sneaky little bugger is.”

“Brag, brag, brag.”

One of Draco’s arched brows arched. “Is that a challenge?”

“I’ve just found more men think they know where it is than actually do.”

“Hmm.” Draco squirted the clear liquid into his palm and dropped the bottle onto the covers. He lavishly covered his index and middle fingers, then scooted closer, lifting one of Harry’s legs, looking at his arse intently.

It used to embarrass Harry, unblinking regard like that. It didn’t any more. In fact, he craved it nearly as much as he craved a man who knew what he was doing giving him a good seeing to. Harry had a feeling Draco knew what he was doing, and his balls drew up, his cock so hard it ached. Draco circled the furled opening of his anus, and just the touch with the slippery glide felt amazing. He took and released several deep breaths, and forced his muscles to relax when Draco pushed in with just his index finger.

And fuck, yes, Draco knew what he was doing. He pressed in and pulled out in several shallow movements, turning his hand palm p against Harry’s arse, crooking his index finger. The first touch of finger tip to prostate made Harry gasp and cry out. 

“Okay,” he said, his voice shaky, “So it wasn’t just bravado.”

Draco grinned and winked down at him, applying a little more pressure and inserting his second finger. It burned and ached in the most perfect way, and Harry arched his hips up with a wordless entreaty.

“You in a hurry?” Draco asked Harry wryly. “I like to take my time.”

“Good for you,” Harry retorted. “I like to come with a cock up my arse.”

“Fair enough.” 

Draco still didn’t hurry. He worked Harry’s rim, two fingers inside and his thumb pressing against his prostate through his perineum, and a long string of pre-come pooled on his stomach. Harry had started out thinking he wasn’t going to beg, but that resolve went away quickly.

“Please, Draco,” he said, his head moving on his pillow.

“Please, what?”

“Please, please fuck me.”

Draco caught his breath audibly. “Oh, wasn’t that pretty. How can I decline?”

Draco took his cock in hand, moved closer, and pressed the head against Harry’s opening. There was a moment’s resistance, then he slid inside. 

“Ah, fuck,” Draco groaned. “How can someone who likes ass play as much as you do be so bloody tight?”

“I like it,” Harry said, his voice strained. “Doesn’t mean it’s all I like.”

“Good to know.” Draco pressed all the way in, until his pubic bone was up against Harry’s arse. They both moaned. “We can switch off next time.”

“Yeah, that’s –“ Draco pulled almost all the way out and pressed in again, and Harry simply forgot to think at all, “ – yeah, fine.”

Fortunately, Draco apparently wasn’t feeling like mocking him at the moment. His first few thrusts were long and slow, but he began to tremble as he lifted Harry’s leg up and wrapped it over his hip. 

“I’m afraid it’s been a while, and this feels entirely too amazing.”

“Don’t feel like you have to go slow on my account,” Harry said. “Just – “ 

Draco slipped his hand under Harry’s arse and changed the angle of penetration, and Harry gasped. “Fuck, yes. That – there.”

It didn’t take long at all after that, but Draco was a considerate lover. He paced his thrusts, going deeper and harder, then waited until he felt Harry tighten down around him, his body shaking and his back arched as he cried out and shot come onto Draco’s stomach. Draco gave up on style at that point and fucked Harry hard, and Harry groaned, both legs wrapping around Draco’s waist as he shuddered through another, smaller orgasm. When Draco collapsed on top of him, Harry lay limp beneath him, shaking.

It took several minutes before Draco could move. He withdrew carefully, then collapsed beside Harry. “That,” he said breathlessly, “was amazing.”

“Yeah, it was,” Harry agreed. He reached over and wrapped his arm around Draco’s neck. “Come here.” He pulled Draco to him, and buried his nose in the hair just behind Draco’s ear. It wasn’t long before they were both asleep.

_NoelNoelNoel_

When Harry woke up it was dark in his room, and he was alone in his bed. He sat up quickly, and his heart slammed into his ribs on its way down into his stomach. He felt momentarily sick at the thought Draco might have fucked him blind, then left him there alone. Then he heard the sound of his teapot whistling and a cupboard door close, and he breathed deeply in relief. He dug in his wardrobe until he found a fairly clean pair of joggers and he pulled them on as he walked out into his sitting room. When he saw the tangle of clothes in the sitting room, he made a mental note to move those lest Lily decided to _drop in_.

Draco was standing in the kitchenette, wearing Harry’s bathrobe as he prepared a pot of tea. His hair was damp and Harry could smell his shower gel as he walked up behind him and pressed a kiss to the back of his neck.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello.” Draco turned and wrapped an arm around Harry’s neck, pressing a kiss to his lips, then holding up a piece of toast before his mouth. 

“Mm. Thank you. Can I persuade you to make me a cup of tea?”

Draco sniffed Harry’s neck, wrinkling his nose. “Yes, if you shower. You smell like sex.”

“And there’s something wrong with that?” Harry cocked his head to one side, taking another bite of toast. He hadn’t even known he owned a toaster, but there is sat on the counter.

“Let me rephrase,” Draco drawled. “You smell like old spunk and arse.”

“Ahh. Be right back.”

Harry kissed him on the nose, then went to take a quick shower, coming back out in his other bathrobe, the green silk one Hermione had given him for Christmas one year. Draco whistled when he saw it.

“Where were you hiding _that_? I’d never have gone for this old thing if I knew that was an option.”

“Wanna trade?” 

Harry wasn’t really fond of silk, and he took it off and held it out, enjoying the heat in Draco’s eyes as he took in his naked body. Never taking his eyes away, Draco took off the black terri-cloth robe Harry preferred and held it out to him. They both took their time slipping into the other robe, stealing kisses and soft touches, and when they were covered Draco picked up a tray Harry also didn’t remember owning, complete with a tea pot and cups he _did_ , and a plate of toast with a jar of raspberry preserves Molly made for him every year for his birthday. He thought Draco might be the only person alive he didn’t begrudge sharing them with.

Draco had lit the fire in the fireplace, and the tree in the corner was twinkling, the fairy lights gleaming as the fairies flitted from branch to branch. Candles flickered on the mantle, and a small wrapped Christmas present sat on the coffee table.

“What’s that?” Harry asked.

“What does it look like?” Draco said dryly. 

“It looks like a Christmas present.” Harry grinned at him. “Is it for me?”

“No, it’s for Ronald.” Draco rolled his eyes. “Of course it’s for you.”

“Well, I’ll have you know I have something for you, too.” Harry loved the look of surprise on Draco’s face. “I haven’t wrapped it yet, but…”

“I don’t care about that,” Draco said, looking as excited as a little kid. “Where is it?”

Harry summoned the package from the top of the bureau in the bedroom, and put it next to the nicely wrapped gift on the table. Draco stared at it, his eyes avid. 

“I want to open it.”

Harry chuckled. “Go ahead.” Now that Draco was going to see it, he felt unaccountably nervous and his casual attitude was hard fought for.

Gleefully, Draco popped the tape on the box and took out the newsprint wrapped figuring, tearing the paper in his rush to get it unwrapped. When the elegant dragon came into view, he went still, his eyes very wide as he stared at it. 

When he didn’t say anything for what felt like a long time, Harry’s stomach began to twist. “Don’t you like it?” he asked finally, unable to sit silent any longer. 

“Harry, open your gift,” Draco said softly, his fingers reverent as he traced the dragon’s scales. He didn’t act like he disliked the gift, but Harry was confused.

Until he pulled the ribbon and paper from his own gift, and saw the graceful, perfect stag emerge from the paper. He stared at it, his mouth slightly open. 

“Draco,” he whispered. “It’s perfect.”

Draco reached over and tenderly touched Harry’s hand. “I know.”

__

_NoelNoelNoel_

Harry walked the halls that led from his office in the north tower to the quarters he and Draco now shared on the second floor, not far from the Potions classroom.

Draco had been the potions professor for just under a year now, but they hadn’t gone public with their relationship until just before the fall/winter session had begun. Albus and Scorpius had both passed their NEWT’s the summer before and were no longer at Hogwarts. They’d offered to wait until Lily graduated as well, but she’d rolled her eyes and told them in no uncertain terms they were being stupid, and she wouldn’t have any problem handling it, unlike certain _boys_ she knew. Draco laughed and said that was good enough for him, and Harry moved in that weekend.

Sometimes Harry missed his old quarters; they were closer to the tower, for one, but Harry realized that during the walk from the second floor up to his office and back again, he interacted with students more than he ever had, and that was a good thing. He also missed the kitchenette; they didn’t have one in their current quarters, but he didn’t miss it enough not to room with his fiancé. They had a teapot and the elves never minded delivering food, so all in all, it was a good thing.

Harry exchanged greetings with a couple of fourth year Gryffindors and the Slytherin prefect; it always amazed him how much friendlier the Slyherins were to him now that he was engaged to their head of house. (Draco said ‘now that he was fucking their head of house’, but Harry couldn’t even think that without turning bright red; that he still blushed entertained Draco utterly).The kids were heading to fifth hour, and he knew Draco didn’t have a class so he was going down to see if he could catch him in their quarters. He’d had an owl from Kingsley that morning, and he wanted to discuss the contents with Draco before he sent a response. Harry arrived at their door and put his palm in the middle of it; moments later, he heard it unlock and opened it.

Their sitting room was much larger than the old one, with slightly threadbare but infinitely better looking furniture, a large, thick rug over the stone floors and a large fireplace on the far wall. Their Christmas tree, lavishly decorated by he and Draco because he didn’t want it done by the elves, stood in the corner and their marble mantle was draped in cedar, the blown glass stag and dragon facing each other amonst candle holders and Christmas cards. 

Harry closed the door behind him. “Draco? You here?”

“Bedroom.” 

Harry followed the sound of his lover’s voice and paused in the bedroom doorway. The huge window at the head of their bed showed the top of an enormous old sycamore tree and had a view of the lake, and their bed was mussed, the usual pin neat arrangement of pillows in gray and cream piled in the center of their comforter. There was another Christmas tree, one that hadn’t been there that morning, standing next to the bed, a deer made of twinkle lights at its base, and a strand of Muggle style lights draped over one corner of the bed. They had to be operating via magic because they was no electricity in the castle, and seeing them made Harry smile. Draco sat on the floor on a small gray and cream rug, wrapping paper and ribbon strewn around him, legs crossed beneath him and long, pale feet bare.

“What’re you doing?” Harry asked, coming into the room. Draco gave him an incredulous look. 

“Baking cookies,” he said drily. 

“Har de har,” Harry replied. “I can see you’re wrapping presents. I meant with the lights and the tree.”

Draco looked down at the gift he was wrapping, and Harry recognized the dark blue velvet scarf as being Molly’s Christmas gift. He saw the blush tint Draco’s cheeks. 

“Draco?” Harry prodded when he didn’t answer.

“I thought we needed more decorations,” he said finally. “These rooms are so much bigger…”

“It’s true; they are. And I like the new tree.” Harry sat on the edge of the bed. “Where did the Muggle stuff come from?”

Draco looked up, eyes brightening. “Oh, Lily and I are performing an experiment.”

Harry smiled. He was delighted by how well his daughter and his lover got along; he was not so delighted by the fact that she was still dating Scorpius, but that would have been the case no matter who she was dating. At least Scorpius was a good kid, and his grades at UNI were stellar. Albus was working for his Uncle George, and being paid an obscene amount of money. 

“What kind of experiment?” Harry asked, picking up the plug end of the lights and examining it. 

“We’ve charmed the lights with fairy magic, to see how long they’ll stay lit before they go dark. I know they… what is it…go out.”

“Burn out,” Harry corrected gently. 

“Right, right.” Draco taped down the side of the box he’d put Molly’s scarf in. “Burn out. We want to know if they burn out because of shoddy manufacturing, or some other reason.”

“Shoddy manufacturing?”

Draco nodded. “Well, of course. Why else would something do so foolish as to ‘burn out’?”

Harry had no answer for that, so he shrugged. “No idea.”

“Lily’s hypothesis is that they’ll stay lit indefinitely. I propose that it’s shoddy manufacturing. Winner buys tea and Madam Pudifoot’s.”

“Why in the world would either of you want to go there?” Harry said, aghast.

“Why, so that reporter for the _Prophet_ who hangs around all the time will write that we’re cheating on you with each other, of course. Then we can sue them.”

“You can’t sue them for that, Draco,” he said wearily.

Draco gave him a steady glare. “For suggesting a Hogwarts Professor might be dating an underage student? Care to make a wager?”

“She’ll only be underage for another two months,” Harry said. “What if the lights burn longer than that?”

Draco frowned. “Hmm. I’ll have to discuss the possibility with her.” 

Draco loved to cut and tape the paper for gifts by hand, but he hated tying on ribbon. He did that part with his wand, executing a series of complicated movements that created a beautiful bow. “So, Headmaster,” he said with a smile. Calling Harry ‘Headmaster’ always amused him, because it always made Harry blush; he knew what Draco was insinuating, even if he always insisted it ‘was a compliment on his technique’. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“I’ve had an owl from Kingsley,” he said. Draco stilled, his eyes wide. 

“Ronald is all right?”

“Ron is fine, love,” Harry said. That was another unlikely relationship that thrilled Harry. He and Draco and Ron and Hermione made up a ‘Friday night foursome’, going out to dinner once a week, and no matter how much Draco and Ron picked at each other, Harry knew how fond of each other they’d become. “It’s about Percy.”

Draco’s eyes grew hooded. “What about him?” 

Draco was still angry about the years he felt Percy had stolen from them. He reasoned if Harry had stayed in the UK and testified for him, Draco never would have been sent to the Muggle world to fend for himself. Harry couldn’t disagree. He always wondered how much more of a relationship they might’ve had if he hadn’t gone off to America twenty years before. He also couldn’t help but think of Molly and Arthur, and how much Percy’s actions had hurt the family. 

“He’s petitioned to be reinstated, but Kingsley won’t consider it if we aren’t on board.”

Draco’s jaw worked. He set aside the tape and leaned back on his hands. 

“Part of me, the vengeful Malfoy part, wants him to never be reinstated.” He sighed. “The part of me that’s come to love Molly and Arthur wants to just let it go. I mean, it’s not Penelope and little Astrid’s fault their husband and father is a giant wanker. What do you think?”

Harry leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I think he cost you more than he did me.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Well, if you put it that way, you know I’ll say he can work in janitorial at the Ministry forever.” He said it seriously, but Harry could see he didn’t mean it. His light eyes were dancing. 

Harry waited, and Draco stared out of their bedroom window. Finally, he sighed. 

“It’s time to let it go,” he said, turning back to Harry. “But I insist we let him know the only reason is because his mother and father are much better people than he is. And I refuse to buy him Christmas gifts, even if we do draw his name.”

“Done.” Harry leaned forward, smiling into the kiss he placed on Draco’s lips. “I’ll go Floo Kingsley.” He stood and headed toward the door.

“Remember we’re taking Scorpius through the Manor tonight.”

Harry paused just inside the bedroom door and turned back.

Draco had decided he couldn’t bear to live in the Manor again, but he hadn’t wanted to sell it until Scorpius made a decision about whether or not he wanted to keep it. It had taken six months working at least one day of nearly every weekend for them to clear all of the damaged wards, but they’d completed the work two weeks before. Now it was time for Scorpius to see what he wanted to do with the family holding. 

“I know, sweetheart. I won’t forget.”

Draco pushed up off of the floor, walking to him, wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck. “Remind me to tell you later that I love you.”

Harry wrapped his arms around Draco’s waist. “O—kay. But why not now?”

Draco gave him a level look. “Because when I tell you I love you, I want to _show_ you I love you, and I’ve got your daughter in double potions after lunch. Somehow the brat always knows when… well, she knows, and she delights in smirking at me for two hours. So, later.”

Harry laughed. “Okay, later it is.” He kissed Draco, meaning to make it a quick brush of lips but when he went to pull back, Draco deepened the kiss instead. After several long seconds, and one very hard cock later, Harry grabbed Draco’s wrists. “What happened to later?”

Draco grinned. “You taste good.” He shrugged. “And kisses don’t make me blush, but they do _you_. And you’re having lunch with her – “ Draco glanced at the clock, “—now. Enjoy!” He flounced back to the pile of gift wrap. 

“You’re a wretch,” Harry said. 

Draco grinned. “But you love me.”

Harry shook his head, but when he turned away he was smiling. 

“I do” he said. I truly do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for taking this holiday journey with me. Best wishes for a wonderful 2020.


End file.
